Room

I was unwell a few weeks ago and had a couple of days away from work. Nothing major, but enough to make me not want to crawl out from under my pink flannelette sheets or – you know – wake up at all really.


On my first day at home, after sleeping for about 12 hours straight I tried to find things to do, which did not involve closing my eyes and snoring like an old man. I watched some shows I’d TiVoed, I wrote some posts for my other blog, I played on Facebook and Twitter, and finally I ran a hot bath and pulled out my library books.


I usually stick to authors I know and stalk the library shelves (or bookstores) awaiting the next new release, but in an act of desperation I’d borrowed an unknown.  I’d seen the book on the library shelves and the blurb on the dust jacket was tempting, although I wasn’t sure it was what I wanted for my mid week reading.


Nevertheless, desperate for reading fodder I picked it up and kept reading. And reading. And reading.


The plot of the novel itself is quite original, but it was the novel’s voice that drew me in. From the get-go.

Today I’m five. I was four last night going to sleep in Wardrobe, but when I wake up in Bed in the dark I’m changed to five, abracadabra. Before that I was three, then two, then one, then zero. “Was I minus numbers?”


“Hmm?” Ma does a big stretch.


“Up in Heaven. Was I minus one, minus two, minus three-?”


“Nah, the numbers didn’t start till you zoomed down.”


“Through Skylight. You were all sad till I happened in your tummy.”


“You said it.” Ma leans out of Bed to switch on Lamp and he makes everything light up whoosh.

Emma Donoghue’s Room introduces us to five year old Jack, and his mother who live in 'Room'. It becomes obvious pretty quickly that Jack and his mother are being held captive in Room and we learn that his mother was abducted as a 19 year old college student seven years before.


The eleven square foot Room is Jack’s world. He has a television set, but believes Ma who says none of what he sees on there is real. And he knows that God’s face, which shines through the skylight, is Outer Space. In his world there is no outside, only inside: Room.


Jack and Ma’s captor visits most nights, and Jack spends the night in Wardrobe until he’s left his mother’s bed.


It is only when the captor’s behavior becomes increasingly unpredictable that Ma decides that Jack should know the truth and she finally tells him of the world beyond their four walls. And they start to hatch a plan for their escape.


I don’t have children and it’s a long time since my niece was five years old, but it is Donoghue’s delivery of Jack’s thoughts and dialogue which makes this book so poignant and so entertaining. Delivering the narrative from a five-year old’s perspective lends an amazing level of innocence to this tale of discovery.


Ma has been Jack’s world for five years and he hers. He is whippet smart and with only the company of an adult, he is wise beyond his years... in things that matter.


Jack’s world is so real. Everything in Room, for Jack, has a gender and personality and is a living and breathing thing. Donoghue’s writing gives this a level of believability through the absence of verbs and her use of nouns as verbs.


I’m not alone in my love for Jack and Irish-born Donoghue’s writing, with the book shortlisted for the 2010 Man Booker Prize.


In fact, I enjoyed Room so much that it is the only book I can ever remember reading that I wanted read it again straight away. Even now I am pining for Jack’s turn of phrase.  And it’s stayed with me for days; weeks even. Just as all beautiful and thought-provoking voices should.

The lost art of the gumshoe (Part 2)

Once I discovered Robert B Parker I devoured everything he’d written.

Fortunately for me, Parker was a prolific writer and I had 35 years of novels to catch up on.  It’s hard to describe what I found - and continue to find - so addictive about his work. There are no tricks, no fireworks, just witty banter, quirky and complicated multi-dimensional characters and a simple, but full-of-twists plot.

Spenser and his world were so vivid and alluring to me that I couldn’t help but wonder how they would translate onto celluloid: I wanted to see my wise-cracking PI on the screen.  But of course, as is usually the case, someone else had this brain-wave before me.

The TV Series, Spenser for Hire, ran from 1985-88 and was, by all accounts a disappointment.  Especially for Parker fans.  Reviews quote Robert Urich as being woefully miscast as the enigmatic and witty Spenser.  The series came across as a stock standard TV detective show, with none of the wit and banter of Parker’s dialogue being translated onto the screen.  Apparently the only character to come away unscathed was Hawk, who featured in a brief TV spin-off.

Spenser apparently again featured in a series of TV movies in the late 90s and early 2000s, which I am loath to find for fear of the aforementioned disappointment.

In 1997 Parker introduced readers to Jesse Stone, a flawed, alcoholic Californian homicide detective who is reborn as a small town police chief.  Parker’s stable of characters grew again in 1999 through the introduction of a series featuring Sunny Randall, a Boston female PI.

While I am not as devoted to the new series, again, Parker provides us with seemingly simple characters who, beneath their flawed surface, have layers of angst and a strong commitment to justice.  Like Spenser, both bend the rules to ensure that good wins out over evil, or right over wrong in the end.  Interestingly also, a number of support characters feature in all three series and I have to admit to some sense of satisfaction (or closure) when Randall and Stone actually end up meeting…. as if I had a hand in their match-making.

Prior to his rebirth in television’s Blue Bloods, Tom Selleck appeared in a number of “Jesse Stone” TV movies which really didn’t break any new ground, though were sufficiently entertaining for 10pm on a Saturday night.  We are yet to see Sunny Randall on screen, although on his website Parker noted (at the time) that he created the character following a request from actress Helen Hunt for a strong female crime fighter role.  Perhaps the fate of Spenser and Stone in their transition to ‘talkies’ gave Hunt pause for thought.

In 2005 Parker diversified into westerns, launching a new series starting with Appaloosa. Again it appears that someone thought his work would translate onto the screen and a feature film starring Viggo Mortenson, Ed Harris and Renee Zellweger was released in 2008.

If I have one criticism of Parker’s novels, it is his non-lead female characters, namely Spenser’s love-of-his-life, the psychologist with the (much talked-about) Harvard PhD; and the cheating, sleeping-her-way-to-the-top, ex-wife of Jesse Stone. They come across as smug, manipulative and self-satisfied, making the leading men in their lives, too yielding and doting – attributes which don’t gel with their characters.  These women irk me enough to make me wonder about Parker’s perception of the fairer sex, which is interesting because (to the best of my knowledge) the author dedicated most, if not all, of his books to his wife Joan.

Although Parker won a Pulitzer Prize in 1976 for his work, Edith Wharton: A Biography, it is not surprising that his more recent work has not been shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize.  He does however, fair better than the likes of James Patterson in balancing quality with quantity.  And even Parker’s weakest novels are appealing and very readable.  Although some reviewers believe his Spenser novels aren’t as compelling as they once were, I find his voice unchanged as Spenser remains a loveable smart arse and Parker’s continues to deliver his tongue-in-cheek and occasionally self-deprecating prose.

Her desk was beside a door that led to the office of the department chairperson. I knew that at once, because I am a trained investigator and the sign of the pebbled-glass door said Office of the Department Chairperson”

Painted Ladies (p. 43) 2010 GP Putnam’s & Sons (Penguin Group)

The best thing about becoming a Robert B Parker convert 35 years after he’d released his first book was the dearth of novels available through libraries and second hand bookshops.  I also found myself stalking his website for some time, waiting for my next installment of Spenser (or Jesse or Sunny). Although in existence for 40 human years, Spenser barely aged in literary years.  One could almost be forgiven for thinking he may just go on forever.  Almost.

Perhaps that was why I was so stricken when I logged onto his website early last year only to discover that Robert B Parker had in fact passed away some months earlier. When he died on 18 January 2010 he was 77 years of age and had written over 60 books.

The lost art of the gumshoe (Part 1)

Sometime after Hercule Poirot’s little grey cells and before crime scene investigators, coroners and FBI agents there lived the trusty gumshoe.

The word itself might evoke images of Raymond Chandler’s Phillip Marlowe or Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer. Of trench-coated, chain-smoking detectives speaking unintelligibly out of the corners of their mouths.  Of private eyes (PIs)…. almost irrelevant and unfashionable in today’s high-tech world.

It seems today that a lot of contemporary writers create crimes involving the macabre, and focus on the specialist skills of those tracking down the baddies.  As a result, on our bookshelves and small and big screens, we’ve seen the rise of the coroner, crime scene investigators and criminal profilers with a few cold-case specialists thrown in.

I really didn’t notice this shift as I moved along with the masses, indulging in the type of reading fodder to give a girl nightmares.  In fact, because I occasionally indulged in a sprinkling of PI Kinsey Millhone, compliments of Sue Grafton’s alphabet series, and Janet Evanovich’s Bounty Hunter Stephanie Plum, I didn’t really notice that most of the crime fiction I was reading featured the grisly and gruesome.

That is, until a few years ago while desperately picking through the crumbs of my local library’s fiction shelves, when I discovered Spenser (gumshoe / PI / private dick) and his world created by American and Raymond Chandler-aspirant, Robert B Parker.

It was at this point I stopped to ponder on the fate of the simple whodunit.  Was the folkloric gumshoe, I wondered, out-of-pace and irrelevant; like Britney Spears and notebooks in a world of Lady Gaga and iPads?

For me, discovering Spenser and (more importantly) Parker, reignited my interest in the simple - but by no means boring - murder/mystery.  It was then I realised that the art of the gumshoe was not really lost.  Just misplaced among the sexier crime-fighters - the coroners, lawyers and FBI agents.

Parker first introduced Boston PI, Spenser in 1973 in The Godwulf Manuscript.  Spenser IS the archetypal gumshoe.  Smug, wise-cracking with a strong sense of right and wrong (though slightly off-centre code of ethics), Spenser is a man of honour in his world of thieves, and thugs, and mobsters, and…. well, you get the point.

An ex-boxer, we quickly learn that Spenser is as good with his fists as he is with his gun and his wit - although the latter isn’t always appreciated by his protagonists.

Spenser’s relationship with his best friend Hawk is an interesting one and their characters and dialogue bounce off one another throughout the series.  One will gladly kill (and they often do) without hesitation or sense of recourse, for the other.   Hawk, whose actual profession is vaguely described only through its illegalness, seems devoid of any moral compass but abides by Spenser’s unusual rules of engagement.  Together they are magic.  Their trash-talking draws me in.  And… I may be a little in love with Hawk.  Despite the lawlessness.

What Robert B Parker and Spenser offer is an escape into an unimaginable world.  Unless of course you hang with mobsters and pimps.  A world where the wise-cracking hero doesn’t always solve the crime, sometimes gets paid in donuts, but usually gets an outcome that allows him to sleep at night.  Justice has many forms in Spenser’s world.

Far Eastern Odysseys and Emergency Sex

A few things have transpired in the last few weeks which have me thinking.  And pondering.

I have been quite unhappy at work for some time.  This isn’t necessarily a new thing as I get bored very easily and tend to change jobs with regularity.  At the moment however, although I contemplate alternatives, I find myself at a loss to identify what my options might be.  This had led me to reconsider a former career in aid and development - a previous life in which I worked and managed projects in developing countries.

Then, a couple of Tuesdays ago, I was channel surfing free-to-air TV and came across Rick Stein’s Far Eastern Odyssey.  It was the first show in the series and featured Cambodia.

I lived in Cambodia (aka Kampuchea; aka Cambodge) as a volunteer for about 7 months (until a coup d’etat) in 1997.  I returned for a month or so the following year as an election observer - part of a 20-person Australian / New Zealand contingent.

Generally I cannot watch shows or read about places I have lived or worked.  I’m not sure why.  Perhaps I feel the shows do not do the places and people justice, or that they objectify or patronise them.  Perhaps I have figuratively washed my hands of the places and people, moved on (literally) and don’t want to be reminded of them.  Or perhaps it is just the opposite and I find it painful to be reminded of previous lives and past regrets.  I don’t know.

But as it happened, I enjoyed watching Rick and his guides eating and cooking their way across Cambodia.  And, though over a decade since I was there, I felt a sense of familiarity and déjà vu.

Then….only a few days later I had a conversation with a fellow commuter, the way one does when they see the same strangers day after day.  Our smiles had become hellos and our hellos had become conversations.

This day – without knowing any of my history - she (for I still don’t know her name and keep meaning to ask!) told me how she would like to work in a developing country one day.  In the course of our conversation she talked about a book called, Emergency Sex and Other Desperate Measures: A True Story of Hell on Earth and offered to lend it to me.  And surprisingly she - my nameless fellow-commuter - appeared the following day with the book.

I, however, wasn’t sure I would want to read the book for the same reason I don’t watch stuff about places I have lived and worked.  So before receiving the book I was coming up with plausible platitudes which could fool her into thinking I had read the damned thing so as not to offend her generous gesture.

Surprisingly, although not particularly enamoured with two of the three authors (and protagonists), I demolished the book in two late-night reading sessions.

The book itself was written by three United Nations (UN) workers: Andrew, a NZ doctor, started out working for the Red Cross in Cambodia before the UN arrived en-masse to secure peace and democracy; Heidi, a disenfranchised recently divorced and broke social worker snared the UN gig to make some money; and Ken, a law graduate with an interest in human rights and no interest in actually practicing law.  The three cross paths in Cambodia in 1993 and continue to do so until the end of that decade and the book tracks them through the UN hotspots of Cambodia, Haiti, Somalia, Rwanda, Liberia and Bosnia.

I met some of these characters in my overseas exploits, particularly while living in Mozambique, Cambodia and East Timor.  Adrenaline junkies who move from emergency to emergency; UN Mission to UN Mission, many with little regard or thought for the people whose homeland they are inhabiting (albeit briefly).  Some good work is done but the motivations of many can be disheartening.

But even as I read this book and grimaced at some of the characters and happenings, I found myself feeling the familiar tinge of adrenaline and reminding myself of the good, rather than the bad.



[caption id="attachment_408" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Me in Mozambique"][/caption]

Emergency Sex returned to its commuter-owner, I am left pondering.  After my last overseas gig a decade ago: two years in East Timor then some time in the private sector involving a lot of travel in the Pacific, I yearned for normalcy.  I left the industry for what-I-hoped-would-be a more settled existence.  Indeed I have had absolutely no interest in traveling (anywhere or at all) since my return.  So why now am I surfing the internet for development jobs?  Am I like Heidi in Emergency Sex (who I quite disliked) - disenfranchised and looking for something new?  Or is my current lack of fulfillment because I have no sense that what I am (currently) doing makes a difference.  To anyone.

I tried to explain my lack of fulfillment to a boss a few years ago.  While living in developing countries the conditions are difficult.  You may not have access to regular electricity or running water.   Security may be an issue and you may be quite socially isolated.  So everyday life is hard.  A challenge.  As a result it doesn’t matter if work is maniacally busy or less-than-fulfilling because you don’t have the luxury of considering self-actualisation or pausing to ponder the meaning of life.  But in a world (here) where life is (mostly) easy, I find myself expecting more from my work.  More from people around me.  Often neither measure up. And this isn’t always their fault.

So, if I am honest, my desire to return to my previous life is as much about my dissatisfaction with the rest of my life as it is about work even though I realise my previous escapades did little to stave off the disenfranchisement.  So, I wonder why I think this time would be any different….

In Death...

I have many guilty pleasures.  Some just naughty – champagne, chocolate, red wine and so forth.  Some a little weird – an early years’ fetish for Dr Spock (the one with the pointy ears, not the child-rearing guru).  And some that are mostly embarrassing.  Like the ridiculous pleasure I get from the TV show, ‘Murder She Wrote’ and from a series of novels by romance writer, Nora Roberts, under the pseudonym JD Robb.

I am a prolific reader and constantly running out of reading fodder.  So nothing excites me more than finding a new author, whose work I find digestible, and who already has a realm of books under their belt.  I am as happy as the proverbial pig in mud. No painful searches of the rarely-changing library shelves of my local library; or being driven to fork out hard-earned cash for mediocre books.

I regularly admit to a fairly prosaic taste in literature. Though I find myself balking at some crime fiction (I cannot believe I used to read Patricia Cornwell for example), I don’t mind the likes of PD James, Martha Grimes and Robert B Parker.

So… admissions and self-flagellation completed, a few years ago I borrowed a book by JD Robb.  Though (obviously) by no means a literary snob, I might have bypassed the book had I realised it was written by an author better known for romance than murder and mayhem.  But realise I did not.  I don’t remember what that book actually was, but it was undoubtedly one from somewhere in the middle of the series, given the discovery took place in 2008 and Roberts kicked off her ‘In Death’ novels (as an experiment) in 1995.

I was entranced and literally ploughed through all existing ‘In Death’ novels over subsequent months.  I tried to do so in order – given that an underlying story unfolds as a backdrop to the murderous mysteries unraveling front-stage.

I have read them all now (bar a few short stories appearing in other collections).  And I have even re-read some.  The series has taken its place along with some other staples (TV series’ ‘Buffy’, ‘Pushing Daisies’, ‘Entourage’ and ‘West Wing’; and Robert B Parker’s Spenser or Sunny Randall novels) which I can watch or read again and again and are a source of great comfort.

So, I wonder, what is it about these novels that endear them to me? 

Though I am not a Sci Fi or fantasy genre fan, these novels are set in the future, the first kicking off in the late 2050s.  In a brave new world following the ‘Urban Wars’ of the 2020s.  In this world we meet New York Homicide cop, Lieutenant Eve Dallas.  A strong, independent woman, (stereotypically) scarred by childhood trauma.  In the first novel, ‘Naked in Death’ Eve crosses paths with the enigmatic (and if that word was coined with a character in mind, it was this one) Roarke, mega-rich and a law unto himself.

Their relationship makes the novels and (in my point of view) sometimes almost breaks them.  Roberts just avoids Eve falling into some caricature of a former-victim-now-turned-saviour still tortured by her dysfunctional childhood.  As a romantic (at heart) I love Roarke’s devotion to his cop/wife but there is sometimes a fine line between devotion and paternalism; and his compulsion to ‘take care’ of Eve often has me shuddering with discomfort.  I mean, what is it with these people (you read about) who ‘forget to eat’ and who work to exhaustion and have to be carried off to bed by concerned loved ones?   Finally, although not faint-hearted I do occasionally find the sex scenes a bit much to get through and have to skim-read the gory stuff.

But Roberts has a support cast guaranteed to complement the two leads and many of them are as familiar and dear to her readers as Eve and Roarke themselves.  In fact, in many ways Eve’s sidekick - the delightful smartarse, Peabody - keeps me turning the pages as much as the two mainstays. 

One of the things that sets the novels apart from the usual murder / mysteries is the futuristic themes.  Technology is more advanced, certainly, and e-cops, computers and virtual reality play a key role in many of the murders.  Guns have disappeared after the Urban Wars and (other than in Eve’s world) murders are few and far between.

I find myself intrigued about how Roberts interprets the future.  She names her technological advances simply.  Watches are ‘wrist units’.  Some form of escalators that take travelers significant distances are ‘glides’.  Telephones are nicknamed ‘links’ and they, along with mobile phones (‘communicators’) offer vision.  Cars (and other forms of transport – which can move vertically) are ‘transpos’.  All forms of makeup and beauty products are known as ‘enhancements’.   ‘Droids’ are prevalent – though mostly working as maids and doormen. In this world people live well into their 100s and plastic surgery is the norm.  And, in Roberts’ vision, we have settled on other planets by the middle of the 21^st century.

The futuristic world and its gadgets however, do not distract the readers from the plot itself and I find most of Roberts’ ‘In Death’ series less predictable than most other crime fiction or mystery novels I read.  The plots are always robust and the characters strong and multi-dimensional.  Roberts has recently released her 30^th ‘In Death’ novel but given how prolifically she has been churning them out over recent years, I suspect there will be many more to come.   And – for now anyway – that suits me fine.

http://www.jdrobb.com

Morning Pages and Basketball Shots

My friend, KC, is the most optimistic and motivated person I know.  We met a few years ago at a beginners’ writing course.  While I have remained a beginner (and am actually going to repeat the course this year!), KC has gone from strength to strength.  She has had many-a-feature published in magazines and is awaiting the release of her first children’s book (http://www.karencollum.com.au).

Though KC is (obviously) very talented and dedicated, she once told me about a book which helped release her inner creativity and set her onto a more confident path. 

The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and Mark Bryan offers a 12-week step-by-step guide to becoming more creative and productive – in whatever it is that you want to do.  In true ‘me’ style however, I floundered somewhere midway through the book, having not done my homework or followed through on some exercises.  I found the book under my bed recently and dusted it off (not sure if it says something about me or my cleaners?!) and put it aside to potentially revisit.  I have never been into self-help books and rarely resort to non-fiction of any sort.  However, happening upon this book again got me thinking about the usefulness of taking bits and pieces (or what you need) from others’ offerings.

A couple of the key tools in The Artist’s Way are the Artist’s Dates and Morning Pages.  I have to admit I never really took to the Artist’s Dates.  I live alone and already spend much time pondering my life and doing whatever it is that I want to do.  But the Morning Pages I found quite useful.  Eventually.  That is, when I stopped thinking about whether what I was doing was ‘right’ or ‘wrong’.

The idea behind the Morning Pages is that you are supposed to write three pages first thing each morning.  Long-hand.  A brain-dump as such.  To refresh the mind and find whatever is lurking in there, says Cameron. 

Initially I worried that the Morning Pages were akin to a diary for me.  I worried that what I was spewing onto the page was a self-absorbed diatribe rather than insightful and poetic revelations. 

But I soon came to learn the difference.  When keeping a diary, we write what we need to, or want to, and then we stop.  With the Morning Pages you have to keep going until you have filled three pages.  Having to stretch my mind to think of things to write about meant that my morning blither ended up becoming admissions of things I wouldn’t normally include in a diary entry.

So, while I managed the Morning Pages, some of the other exercises led to my downfall.  One of the (many) tenets in the book was that to be more creative, you have to enjoy life and have more fun.  I failed miserably in trying to identify things I do now which I would describe to be ‘fun’.  I did however, manage to identify a number of things I did as a child.  Even at this lofty age, I could remember fun times and how the smallest of things could incite hours of entertainment and interest. 

Though formal practice and training became a chore, I identified the ‘act’ of going and having basketball shots something that I found peaceful and cathartic as a teenager.  The nearby basketball courts were a place I could be alone with my own thoughts as I threw a big round ball (more often than not) into a slightly bigger, but still round, hoop. 

So, the homework exercise should have been easy.  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to recognise that the mere act of ‘having shots’ (as I refer to it) could assist in getting me in touch with my inner child, unleashing stifled creativity and lead to a whole new me.  Or something.

Day after day, then week after week passed, with me not having bought a basketball or done anything about this piece of homework.  Eventually The Artist’s Way (and all it offered) was foisted out of eyeshot under my bed and I retreated back into my uncreative world.

But...  Perhaps it is not too late.  A month ago (and just over one year later) I found myself in a large discount store staring at basketballs for $20.  I tested them all to find one sufficiently pumped (after all I don’t have a pump and if I had to pump the damned thing up, another year may have passed). 

Another few weeks passed.  But, 5 days ago, feeling unsettled and thwarted-in-every-possible-way (and lolling in bed sulking - about what exactly I don’t know), I jumped in my car and found myself at a nearby half-court.  Though I once played and practised a lot, my initial offerings to the God-of-Basketball were somewhat pitiful.  I had no ball control.  My shooting action felt ugly.  But… no one else was around to see.  I had music blaring in my ears compliments of my iPod and I was free.  Free to play. 

I have been twice since.  My ball control still sucks.  I am incredibly unfit and grapple with the guilt of ‘having shots’ rather than doing some real cardiovascular exercise like trudging up and down hills.   But… Today I almost made it ‘around the world’ (shooting from each point of the keyway [key]) without missing.

I hope to continue going.  Once or twice a week would be fine.  Soon I will feel more confident.  I will move further from the keyway; then to the 3 point line.  But it won’t be about ‘how well’ I do.  It will just be about ‘doing’.  About ‘being’.

And, I am going to dust off The Artist’s Way again.  Work through it.  Do what I like.  Skip over what I don’t.  Who knows what will come next?

Reading Jane

Locked away for a period of a month recently I realized I wouldn’t be able to read in my normal manner – in which I can easily read a book a night.  With my luggage space and weight limited I decided, therefore, to take with me a book I was given about 10 years ago but had been afforded no more than a quick glance in that time.

The Complete Novels of Jane Austen, as the title suggests, comprises (all) seven of Jane’s completed novels.  Four of these (Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park and Emma) were published during her lifetime and two after her death (Northanger Abbey and Persuasion.).  The seventh novel in the tome includes an early composition titled Lady Susan.

Dare I admit that this is the first time I have read Jane Austen?  I have seen many of the books translated onto celluloid, both on the big and small screen.  Like hordes of others, the BBC miniseries of Pride and Prejudice is a favourite of mine (and not just for the Colin Firth-coming-out-of-the-water-in-his-wet-shirt factor).  Though Firth’s Mr Darcy is everything Mr Darcy should be.  Handsome, but cold and brooding and Firth does it beautifully.  I am unable to watch subsequent versions as I don’t think any other Mr Darcys could compare.  Nor do I want them to.

But on paper, Austen’s writing is not what I imagined.  She was surely a fan of the why-say-something-in-10 words-if-you-can-say-it-in-100 school of writing.  Of course I realise that her turns of phrase must reflect the era in which she lived, where the conversations and commentaries were incredibly polite, and where passive voice was appreciated (unlike my computer’s grammar-checks!). 

What I hadn’t imagined was that so much of her narrative would be buried in lengthy and meandering paragraphs.  The challenge this provides me is of my own making and uncovers a terrible (terrible) habit.  I skim-read.  I commonly scan a page quickly until I find what I need, which I suspect is how I can read so quickly and prolifically.  As someone who enjoys writing (note that I would not describe myself as a writer) I understand that this is an affront to writers and authors who painstakingly piece together words and lyrical prose to entertain readers.  This unfortunate habit of mine, means that some authors, such as Tim Winton (whose inspired prose is, indeed, beautiful) are wasted on me.  I wonder if this habit is because I am an auditory thinker.  I hear words and storylines rather than visualize them.  I similarly fast-forward DVDs and taped-TV for the same reason - just to get to the ‘action’.  (Note here that I am not implying I am a fan of action-movies, as I am most certainly not.  I mean the next phase of the plot.)

I am aware that Austen has been analysed and critiqued to death, so I am not intending to do so here.  Merely just voicing my own thoughts as I find my interest piqued by her work.  Nor am I going to dissect her characters, either for my own pleasure; or to get an idea of what Jane herself, a lifelong ‘spinster’ (like myself) was like. 

Certainly she was able to write about love and romance, about loss and heartbreak.  Many of her female characters were strong and independent women, her men seemingly either pleasant and outgoing or strong and silent.  But she did not pull punches in developing some flighty, vacuous or socially and financially-ambitious characters – both male and female.  Though I said I wouldn’t extrapolate to Austen’s own personality, I have to say it is clear that, as a woman and as a writer, she did not suffer fools gladly.

Though I know little (and haven’t done the research – for that was not the point of reading her work, or writing this blog) of her life, it seems that she based much of her writing on her own experiences and on those around her.  She is reputed to have fallen in love once or twice.  Firstly to Tom Lefroy – the more public of her dalliances, but her sister wrote of a subsequent relationship (when Jane was 30) where the man in question died suddenly.  Apparently she later accepted a proposal from a wealthy landowner but rescinded her acceptance the next morning and was devastated by the whole episode.

Jane’s wit and sarcastic prose are evidence of her intelligent and observant life, but I wonder about her level of cynicism.  It seems she would have been comfortable around men and gotten to know them well – with 7 brothers and male boarders at the family rectory.  Indeed, as I described earlier she often pulled no punches when developing her male / female characters.  

I found it mildly disturbing when she switched from third person to a first person narrative style.  As an example, near the end of Mansfield Park, and the tale of Fanny Price, Austen writes, “My Fanny indeed at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing, must have been happy in spite of everything….”  As if there has been a narrator present between the pages all along. 

Similarly, once we past the crisis in the storyline, she wraps the novel up quickly – rather than allow us to bask in the ‘happily-ever-after’ ending.  As if she became bored with the story – and Mr Darcy again asks Elizabeth to marry him, she says yes, blah blah and they live happily ever after.  This style coupled with her occasional popping in as the narrator makes it seem as if she is relaying a true account and feels obliged to fit a lot of detail in the final pages to be true to the subject at hand.

Perhaps it is her lack of ‘happily-ever-after’ that caused her to gloss over that bit in her novels.  Perhaps she just got bored with her characters.  Who knows?  What surprised me was what page-turners the novels were (with the exception of Lady Susan – written as a series of letters and when Jane was only 20yrs old - so I will forgive her that one).

The novels have reignited my interest in Jane and I have since re-watched some TV/movie adaptations of her work.  Indeed, the tome will also become one of my many novels which I will read over and over again.  

I suspect I thought of Jane Austen as some sort of Barbara Cartland of her era.  Instead I am struck by how clever she was and how insightful her social commentary was given the role she was afforded in a society in which her name could not even appear on her published manuscripts. 

Jane was 41 years old when she died in 1817.  My age.  And that makes me sad.  For her and for me.  Her life and potential snuffed out prematurely.  And the question going begging…. what do I have to show for my 41 years?

Felicidades – parte dois*

When I first returned (from living in Mozambique in Africa in 1996) I attempted to retain what little Portuguese language I had learned. At the time there was a Brazilian soap opera on one of our TV stations. It was called Felicidades – essentially meaning happiness in Portuguese. While the show itself was typically soap opera-like, I fell in love with the word (rarely used in its plural form).

Although I continue to work in jobs that (by their very nature) require me to constantly be ‘available’ I have been considering cutting back my hours. And no, I don’t mean just to start only doing 8-9hr days, but rather working a 4 day week. I have done the sums and I cannot really afford this. But I am getting closer and closer to approaching my boss about it.

And I wonder now about the concept. Of happiness. I have just written about two women’s searches for happiness, in Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, Eat, Pray, Love (EPL) and the movie (based on a book and featuring one of my favourite actresses, Dianne Lane), Under the Tuscan Sun.

I defended both as not being self-indulgent, superficial quests for ‘happiness’ or ‘meaning’ but rather attempts to regain some of the lives the two women had lost when they unwittingly lost themselves in failed marriages.

I have never been a big believer in the concept of happiness. I talk to my mother often of my ultimate quest for a sense of ‘contentment’ rather than happiness. To me happiness is fleeting – something experienced when you are presented with a nice meal or buy a new item or clothing. Contentment (to me) is less transient. It is more about our sense of ourselves, than derived from external sources.

Having said that, I do believe that unhappiness is less transient and more pervasive. I also believe it is possible to talk ourselves into unhappiness. One minute we are going along okay and then we look across the road and see someone else who has more, or better, and then we feel like we are missing out.

I am a walking-cliché. Constantly feeling discontented with my life, I constantly change things around me (usually jobs) searching for a possibly-unattainable state. I often describe my emotional state as bereft or melancholy rather than ‘unhappy’ which I think sounds as if someone has made me so. Sure, a lot of my discontentment is superficial or materialistic. I wish I had a bigger tv (as I am still living with the large black box instead of a flat-screen LCD or plasma tv), a new lounge suite, or fabulous rug. But, much of my malaise results from my lack of contentment with – well, me and what I have (or have not) achieved, what I do (and don’t do) with my time – essentially, how I live my life.

In EPL and Under the Tuscan Sun, both Elizabeth and Frances lost themselves in their marriages and it was only the end of that institution which led them to sit up and wonder where the hell ‘they’ were. I don’t have that excuse. Only in a work-sense have I had to compromise who I am and who I want to be. While I hate that I have always been single, I am fiercely independent so haven’t spend my life waiting for a partner. I have gotten on with things. But like Elizabeth and Frances, I find myself often wondering if there is anything ‘else’. I can’t help but wonder, “Is this it? Is this all there is?”

In the ‘war of generations’, we talk about Generation Y being even more self-absorbed than Gen X. I watched something recently where a ‘Baby Boomer’ – the generation who led the fight for rights which we now take for granted – called Gen X & Y the ‘I want it all’ generations.

I agree that we are becoming more and more demanding. Not just of others and of service and technology, but also of ourselves. We expect to be happy. Here in 2009, in some time-warped anomaly, we want the material possessions of the greed-is-good culture of the 1980s and we expect the fulfillment of the navel-gazing 1960s.

Once we scoffed at those who stopped and pondered on the point of it all. They were the hippy-wannabes or those who dropped out of life to live on the poverty line as potters or poets. We judged them and suspected that – clad in tie-died kaftans – they weren’t really happy, just constantly too stoned to know any better.

But in the dawn of the new millennium we are taking stock of our lives. In a post-September 11-world which has become more and more demanding (we are always at the other end of electronic media and constantly available), it isn’t only the disenfranchised and the recent divorcees who are poised at the precipice for change.

Some of us are ‘down-sizing’ or taking a sea- or tree-change to improve the quality of our existence. We realise that it isn’t all about money. And we are making selfless choices to improve our environment and the lives of future generations.

I have mulled over the idea for years. But, as a single woman, it is hard to justify. I don’t have the standard excuses – study or children. But I want to make a statement – that my life is not entirely about work. I want to give myself time to do other things like exercise, writing, catching up with friends and just doing chores at home.

Unlike Elizabeth or Frances, it hasn’t really taken a crisis to bring me to this point, but a number of things, including my decision this year to try to have a child; and my (particularly confronting ) time at a fat camp recently.

So, love it or hate it, more and more of us are contemplating our lives. I can almost pinpoint those in my social-circle who will ask ‘why’ I would contemplate a 4-day week. It is easy to make fun of those who are searching for ‘meaning’, happiness or contentment, or even just trying to rediscover our lost selves. It is easy to roll your eyes at those who stop to ask themselves if they are happy.

But I think that asking if you are happy is akin to asking yourself if you are in love. If you have to ask, then you probably aren’t!

* Portuguese (hopefully)

Felicita – parte uno*

Why is it that (in novels and films) people have to ‘leave’ to find themselves? Perhaps that is the only reason the novel exists. If, for example, Mary Smith discovered a sense of her real self between making the kids lunches and vacuuming, she wouldn’t probably bother to document the journey. But, had she traveled purposefully across the country or the world to stave off her inner discontentedness, well… then she might have a bestseller on her hands.

Coincidentally I came across two of these journeys in a weekend recently.

I read the book Eat, Pray, Love (EPL) for the first time and I watched a rerun of the movie (from book of same name) Under the Tuscan Sun.

The same morning that I discovered EPL at my local library I came across an article – scathing in its disdain about society’s current search for happiness. Berating our expectation of happiness along with the myriad of self-help type books, the journalist quotes EPL as being a favourite of some Hollywood-types for whom the book is akin to an existential ‘how-to’ guide. It seems fateful then that I venture across the book later that day and borrow it to see what the fuss is about.

I tend to dislike non-fiction. Well, I actually hate it, and usually don’t go anywhere near it unless forced. When I scanned the book along with my library card, I had no idea that EPL was in fact non-fiction, until I read the cover on arrival home. Nevertheless, I decided I could battle on and see how far I could get before suffering disdain equal to that of the journalist or just giving up out of boredom.

I read it in one sitting. And I loved it. I don’t believe it to be a search of happiness – as blithely condemned by the aforementioned journalist. This implies a glib, superficial self-indulgent search for utopia, or something equally clichéd (Edina’s constantly-changing religions in Absolutely Fabulous comes to mind).

Perhaps if someone told me of the book’s premise, I would laugh. OMG…. A middle-aged well-educated woman suffering from an existential crisis goes to an Ashram in India. True, Elizabeth sounds like walking cliché of a divorcee going through a mid-life crisis.

But, to me, her search through the world’s ‘eyes’ – Italy, India and Indonesia, is actually more about her actually discovering her (lost) self rather than a superficial search for happiness or even some self-actualised meaning of life – despite some of her sources of intellectual and spiritual nourishment!

I read an interview with the author of EPL, Elizabeth Gilbert. She was asked if taking a year off to travel around the world to ‘find herself’ was selfish? I wonder about this question. The notion of selfishness implies that our acts negatively impinge on others. As a single thirty-something year old woman, with the finances to fund her journey I find it bizarre that anyone would question her motivations. We don’t question the selfishness of 20 year olds who want to backpack around the world. Why are the expectations of a 30 year old professional female so different?

a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/26073312@N08/5105580631/" title="Under the tuscan sun by jovisala47, on Flickr">Similarly, Under the Tuscan Sun, features Frances, a bitter divorcee (do I sense a theme?!) who takes off and buys into a new life rather than returning to her old one.

Again it is about a woman trying to find her feet. Trying to find the person she may once have been, but no longer is.

In both the film and book, it takes a crisis for the two women to ‘act’. What does this mean for the rest of us? For those of us not really expecting a life of joy and happiness, but aware of the chunks missing from the jigsaw that is our existence.

Do we need to wait for a crisis? Or is the crisis itself the only reason we venture on such a journey? If there is no crisis, is there no rainbow?

And (crisis or not), is it possible to complete this search as we go about our everyday lives? In between our work, domestic and family commitments? Does this give us the time, energy and opportunity we need to take stock, or do we need to follow Frances’ and Elizabeth’s ‘selfish’ leads and take time out from our everyday lives.

Both of our heroines Elizabeth and Frances, ultimately live happily ever after, having successfully navigated their searches and peeled back the layers of their former lives to rediscover their selves. But, as is so often the case, it isn’t actually the rainbow at the end of the quest that provides them with the answers they seek. It is the journey through which they travel to get there. Frances’ eventual contentment in Tuscany is not arrived at despite the highs and lows during the restoration of her Italian villa, but because of them.

So, in addition to wondering if success is as sweet if there is no preceding bitterness, I wonder now if what we seek comes easily, would it be as fulfilling? Like a math problem, if we are given the answer without actually working out HOW to solve it, we are perhaps no better off than before...

* Italian (hopefully)

Twilight - the series

When I started this it was about my oft-used coping mechanism of watching and re-watching certain comfort movies.

I went off track sometime during the draft, however, as I talked about my latest crutch and it seems that this has turned into a review or analysis of Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series. So, I will have to get back to the coping mechanisms later as I ponder the success of the novels: Twilight; New Moon; Eclipse; and Breaking Dawn. (Known from here in as 1, 2, 3, and 4 out of laziness). After all, it is rare that something can incite anticipation and passion in teenagers and adults alike. So why, I wonder, is the series so popular?

I have one friend who has read them for the vampire factor. Not a goth, but an intelligent and articulate mother, she loves all things other-worldly.

I don’t. If there was a reason I initially rebelled against reading the novels, it was for that exact reason. I don’t like the Sci-Fi or the Fantasy genre. Sure, I want to escape from the mundane-ness of my life, but not quite that much. Also putting me off was the fact that the novels targeted young adults – an audience I deviate from. Significantly.

I started inadvertently about six months ago. Almost by accidence or circumstance. My local library has new novels on weekly loans. And there it was, sitting there one day and so it was borrowed. In desperation (of reading fodder) more than design.

Immediately I was addicted. I remember my early thoughts. There, one Saturday afternoon in the bath. It was an easy read. Simple and welcoming. I read it in one sitting – in a couple of hours. And I was desperate for more.

What was it then; that drew me (and others) in? After recently re-reading the series, a number of things strike me.

It is the ultimate fairytale. Good girl falling for the bad guy. Not just a bad guy, but a superhero bad guy. Interspersed with hints of Jane Austen’s Mr Darcy, our hero, Edward Cullen is wealthy, dark, brooding, intense and enigmatic. He is fiercely protective of young Bella Swan and her honour. He is every girl’s (whether we admit it or not) ultimate fantasy.
Bella on the other hand, is described as nothing special. Attractive, but not beautiful. Awkward and shy. Though a novelty for the small town of Forks, she is pretty normal. Spectacularly unspecial, in contrast to Edward’s beauty and prowess.

Theirs becomes the ultimate love story.

Book 1 drew me in. Book 2 I hated. Fortunately for author Meyer, I had read the excerpt online of what was to be (and may still be) Book 5 (Midnight Sun) – Book 1 from Edward’s perspective. This novel provided much context and made me realize (retrospectively) that much was missing from Book 1. What surprised me the most, was – even though I knew what happens – I loved the draft Book 5 and wanted more. I wanted her to finish it. I wanted more of Bella and Edward.

After the disappointment of Book 2, I continued reading. I realized in retrospect that Book 2 provided context for later storylines, but it lacked everything Book 1 offered – Edward and Bella – the love story. I had heard from a friend that Book 2 was a let-down so I stuck around for 3 and 4, which I devoured with relish.

Having said that, I am unashamedly critical of parts of the novels. Meyer skips periods of time and then goes into detail about others and I felt as it was missing huge chunks of the storyline. I read on her website, that after Twilight, she wrote Forever Dawn, which further explored the Bella-Edward love story. She said it was around this time she got the publishing deal for Twilight and learned it was being marketed as Young Adult (YA) Fiction. She says that Forever Dawn wasn’t suitable for the YA market, so she shelved it and set about writing New Moon. She was therefore writing Book 2 as Book 1 was being edited. When she found that Jacob Black took over Book 2, she had to go back and weave him more into the storyline of Book 1. I wonder if that’s why Book 2 suffers. Perhaps she set out writing with no direction, other than to defer the Edward-Bella love story until she could work out how to weave it into the YA genre.

In some ways I can understand young girls’ adoration of the novels. In some ways they are a tad self-indulgent. Every fantasy comes true. Everything is a tad too perfect. Bella gets to remain the centre of attention, adored by some, hated (seemingly irrationally) by others who go to any end to see her destruction. Some of this is too contrived and, though it didn’t interfere with my reading, I consciously eye-rolled at the storyline from time to time.

Throughout the series I managed to ignore the lack of realism. I mean, the likelihood of our heroine coming across a vampire and werewolf in middle America? It was only the level of self-indulgence that Meyer allowed herself that irked me.

I agree though, with those critics who have commented on the extremity of Bella’s weakness and a perception that the ‘damsel in distress is rescued by the strong hero’. Meyer rebuts this, saying that in later novels, Bella in fact saves Edward. True, but only when she becomes a superhero herself. She explains that Bella seems weak in comparison to the Cullens and the werewolves. I am sure this is the case, but the constant references to Bella falling asleep and having to be carried around and her constant exhaustion offered me pictures of a pale, weak girl. Not a potential role model for young women.

My rant over, I must admit I can only recommend the novels to a potential audience.
I am not sure if author, Stephenie Meyer is a literary genius, but she has got a way with a storyline and she presses all of the right buttons, to draw us in and make us want more.

Bruce Beresford definitely wants to do this….

It was the first time I had paid to go and see someone who was kinda famous. Actually, I must admit that I didn’t even pay. I possibly wouldn’t even have gone if more effort was required, but that says more about me than the event itself.


Josh Hartnett definitely wants to do this… true stories from a life in the screen trade.
Bruce Beresford. HarperCollins Publishers. 2007

The stars and planets aligned as I received an email from the Queensland Writers’ Centre in which my local bookshop, Riverbend Books (Bulimba), offered free tickets to hear Bruce Beresford speak at the launch of his new book, Josh Hartnett definitely wants to do this... As it was early, I was the first caller and easily secured the tickets. I never win competitions or get freebies, so I decided it was all fate and revelled in the idea that I would become some highly-evolved erudite attending only the most cutting-edge of events on the Brisbane cultural calendar.

As I queued for my book to be signed after Bruce’s formal presentation I wondered if I should feel at all pathetic or groupie-like. Should I have been embarrassed by lining up to have someone scrawl their name on my (just-purchased) $40 book - even if he was the author (and kinda famous)?

My lack of guile wasn’t because I was above groupie-like behaviour. In my youth I had a thing about athletes. Though, there was an ill-advised crush on Tom Cruise during his “Top Gun” (pre-sofa-jumping) era. In my own defence, I was a teenager who didn’t know better. I blame rampant hormones and general ignorance and, there shall be no further reference to that part of my life!

Besides, there were far more embarrassing fetishes. Cricketers, Hansie Cronje and Kim Hughes (who, I hear anyone under 35 ask!). Boris Becker (yes, the boom-boom jokes were indeed funny in 1986!); and god I think there were even a time when Pat Cash was of some interest. I was still in a teenager at that stage so the insanity plea (above) still stands.

Alas, I have digressed. But I did wonder what to say to Bruce Beresford. I didn’t want to sound like some star-crazed madwoman. I wanted to come across as some woman-of-the-world, much accustomed to meeting the intellectual elite. However, being a book-signing virgin I hadn’t realised I would not even get the chance to tell Bruce himself what I wanted in my book, but some harried helper alongside the queue, who took our words - and our dreams - and scribbled them on a little square yellow post-it note. Being the literary genius that I am, I had gone with, “To RFS, from Bruce”. So, when I reached the man himself, he simply copied my poetic prose onto my book. “Um, thanks,” I fearlessly mumbled as I moved on as quickly as possible.

So much for me explaining that my interest in his book related to how he turned diary entries into a book! I want to do something similar with letters. I think I had envisaged us ‘connecting’ on some intellectual plane; compare notes and eschew the meaning of life, and well, the universe. Okay, so I didn’t really think that, but I did think I might say something vaguely intelligible which would capture his interest. My lack of verbal capacity obviously wasn’t because he is a great idol of mine. He wasn’t (and isn’t). I guess it is still the ‘them’ and ‘us’ which comes from meeting those who have some iota of fame, while the rest of us wallow in obscure mediocrity.

What I enjoyed about Bruce’s presentation was that it didn’t appear to come easily to him. I guess I thought of him as someone fairly famous who was accustomed to the spotlight and so I expected something smooth and sanitary. He spoke for approximately 30 minutes and it seemed as if he struggled to find things to speak about as he jumped from topic to topic. I wondered if he had planned what to say. It didn’t appear so though he did occasionally refer to some scraps of paper before giving up on them entirely. I imagined a wife or manager behind the scenes, nagging him all day to prepare his speech. He seemed the sort to rebel against any such goading. He was, however, far more comfortable during the Question & Answer session. There was a good crowd at the event, and I suspect most were there to see Bruce the Director, rather than Bruce the Writer as all questions related to his film work.

I have since read Bruce’s book. I enjoyed the anecdotes and he is obviously an intelligent man who thinks and writes with much élan. The book however, is pretty much a collection of experiences over a two year period. It features references to friends, such as Barry Humphries and acting luminaries, Russell Crowe, Cate Blanchet and, of course, Josh Hartnett. And, it isn’t for the faint hearted or those not up for some salacious gossip! During his pre-signing presentation he quipped that lawyers had spent a significant amount of time pouring over his words.

Of most interest was how the whole film and television industry works. An industry of much uncertainty. Survival of the fittest in a world where money reigns supreme and those perceived to be money-makers (the ‘name’ actors) can be in possession of minimal intelligence but much power.

I read an interview in which Bruce commented that his daughters and wife remarked on the amount of time he spends (in the book) referring to women he came across. I think I would have (indeed) been somewhat chagrined about the reflections if he was my father. While not lecherous, he spends an inordinate amount of space contemplating the women he met, many of whom he was compelled to describe in enthusiastic detail!

I found the book easy reading. I didn’t, however, find it hard to put down – which in my world equates to a good book. Though there was a need to remember who-was-who in Bruce’s life, I was able to read it in chunks over a week as my bus crawled to and from the city each day. I happily pulled the book from my work satchel each time I boarded the bus. It interested me enough that the travel time passed without me being overcome with bus-rage which is quite an achievement.

Through Josh Hartnett definitely wants to do this…, I had a glimpse into Bruce’s world. A world I don’t think I ever wanted and now, one I don’t envy, despite the strange fetishes and bus-rage threatening mine!

I attended the Book Launch, hosted by Riverbend books, at Customs House in Brisbane on 9 August 2007.