New blog... over there...

I have started a new blog HERE.

If you'd like to continue reading my posts please add the new address to your feeder/brain/doodad. I haven't yet worked out how to add all the blogs I read in a sidebar there, so if you know how I can I'd be grateful to you for telling me. Thank you.

Tampa by Alissa Nutting

Tampa is a novel that is shocking and provocative. The cover and the opening line make that clear, just in case the reader was in any doubt.

"I spent the night before my first day of teaching in an excited loop of hushed masturbation on my side of the mattress, never falling asleep."

Twenty-six year old Celeste Price is extremely beautiful, married to a police officer called Ford who has plenty of family money to lavish on her, and is about to embark on her first teaching job. A job she has trained for simply to enable her to have access to the male students. Celeste is sexually insatiable, and her predilection is for fourteen year old boys. Fourteen because by fifteen they are already aging.

She is in a fevered state of arousal at school. She masturbates alone in her classroom. From the outside she appears to be in control of her students and ostensibly teaches them English, but all the while she is selecting an appropriate victim. He has to have disengaged parents, be quiet enough not to boast about having sex with his hot teacher, and look appropriately young. She picks Jack Patrick.

Nutting's writing is crisp and clear. She has a good eye for detail, describing one woman as having a "caffeinated ponytail, which was perched in the top center of her skull like a plume on the hat of a Napoleonic infantryman." but the many graphic sex scenes are written in a blankly detailed way. When Celeste is not having sex with Jack she is fantasising about him and masturbating, or maybe enduring sex with Ford. I won't spoiler any plot developments, but we read many of these unemotional and ultimately rather dull scenes. 

The characters don't have depth - we don't ever learn much about Jack or Ford - we see them only through Celeste's eyes. Celeste is a vain woman with a one track mind. Nutting does not make her in any way a sympathetic character, but she is darkly humourous. A fellow teacher, Janet, serves as her counterpoint. Where Celeste is young and attractive, Janet is jaded and unattractive. The staff don't like her, the kids don't like her. Celeste attracts colleagues and students alike with her beauty and is able to continue her predatory behaviour, whilst Janet repels them.

This is Nutting's point, I think. She wants us to look at how society treats beautiful women differently to plainer ones, and female paedophiles differently to male paedophiles. The title Tampa refers us to the Debra LaFave case, where LaFave, a stunning 26 year old teacher, pleaded guilty to "Lewd or Lascivious Battery" after having sex several times with a fourteen year old student. Her lawyer argued that she was too attractive to go to prison. On seeing pictures of her, many thought the boy had been lucky. (Nutting went to the same school as LaFave.) I've been googling, and sadly LaFave is far from alone. Sex with a child is a terrible criminal act, no matter who commits it. Consent from a child is no consent at all. 

Society is often dazzled by shiny, pretty youth. This novel boldly shines a light on some big, messy contradictions. 

A short fiction of mine up at Cease, Cows

Cease, Cows looks to be a pretty nifty new journal. My ace writing pal, Tania Hershman, encouraged me to send a piece their way, and they published Cara last week. They've done a wonderful job finding an accompanying image. It's a bit different to my usual fiction, maybe even a little sci-fi-esque.

Sisterland by Curtis Sittenfeld

A new Sittenfeld novel is always a treat, and Sisterland is a beautifully absorbing read. It's one of those books that you can't wait to get back to when you have to put it down, and then feel bereft when it's finished. In fact, I haven't yet been able to get on with the next book in my tbr pile, it's too soon.

Kate wants a quiet, normal life. She's a stay at home mum to Owen and Rosie, is happily married to Jeremy, and spends her days on playdates with friend and neighbour, Hank, and his daughter. Hank is married to Courtney, a professor of geophysics, who works with Jeremy. The two couples socialise together, pop in and out of each others houses, and have a good relationship. When Vi, Kate's identical twin sister, appears on TV predicting a catastrophic earthquake, it's Courtney who appears opposite her, ridiculing her claim and offering a coolly scientific point of view. Fissures appear in all of their lives.

Where Kate is anxious, controlling and rigid, Vi is expansive, spontaneous and impulsive. Sittenfeld manages to make the reader empathise with both of them. Vi looks like she's having more fun maybe, but I identified with the mummy angsting of Kate. Both twins have always had "senses" although having been ostracised in high school because if her ability to tell the future, Kate has long since attempted to ignore any feelings she has. She's furious with Vi for the publicity which surrounds her announcement, and fears that she will be identified as Vi's twin, and therefore be seen as creepy and different, once again. Loathe as she is to play any part in the prediction a date suddenly fixes itself in her mind, and she feels she has to tell Vi.

Sittenfeld is a classy writer and a great observer of people. The psychic parts are underplayed and seem nothing much more than the general feelings we all get from time to time - this is no schlocky paranormal story. Instead, we are treated to many telling details and conversations.

"Are you embarrassed to be married to me?" I'd thought I was making a joke, but aloud it didn't sound like one.

Sittenfeld expertly sweeps us back and forth in time, creating entire lives. We learn about the twin's parents, their depressed mother and apparently somewhat clueless dad, we learn about school, first boyfriends, friendships, jobs, partners. It's the same skillful layering that was employed so well in American Wife. And all the while tension builds as we approach the dreaded date of the predicted earthquake. It's another pageturner, and Sittenfeld has proven once again that she's one of the very best storytellers around.

New flash up at The Ilanot Review

I like the Editor's note for The Ilanot Review's summer edition. They asked for submissions for a "hybrid" issue and wanted something different - work that "rejected labels." The journal is packed with good words from super smart writers like Elaine Chiew, Sarah Hilary, Jonathan Pinnock, Angela Readman and Nuala Ni Chonchuir. It's pretty damn cool to be appearing in a journal alongside them. I'm pleased with my piece, Immalore. At the risk of sounding like a twat, it's kinda personal, but ambiguous too, and probably the closest I get to poetry.

Tony Hogan Bought Me An Ice-Cream Float Before He Stole My Ma - Kerry Hudson

One of my fave novels of 2012 was Kerry Hudson's stonking debut - Tony Hogan Bought Me An Ice-Cream Float Before He Stole My Ma. It's a great read with characters that fizz off the page and sear themselves into the reader's mind. Opening with the words ""Get out you cunting, shitting, little fucking fucker!"" we immediately enter the world of Janie Ryan. Her story takes place against a backdrop of poverty, council flats and B&B's, benefits, booze, crappy food, strong women, and shitty men. Hudson's voice is refreshing, lively, and real, and although the subject matter is bleak her humour shines through. Yes, the sweariness and Scottishness may have reminded some reviewers of Irvine Welsh, but I reckon there's a fondness for, and a likeability to, the characters that make it closer to a Roddy Doyle novel.

The book has been critically acclaimed by far more important folk than I, and was shortlisted for the Guardian First Book Award, the Saltire Scottish First Book of the year, the Green Carnation prize and the Southbank Sky Arts Award. Pretty damn impressive! As of this week it's available in paperback and to celebrate Kerry has been doing a wee blog tour. She's been chatting to people about various things - her inspiration, favourite writing spots etcetera. I wondered if all the praise for her debut made writing her second novel super pressurised. 

That difficult second album. Second novel syndrome. How to train to be a taxidermist. I googled all of these in the final months of finishing up my second novel, Thirst. If you are writing your second novel right now DO NOT DO THIS. It is very unhelpful as there are swathes of articles who'll tell you about each and every author whose second novel got consigned to the bottom drawer. Forever.
The common reasons that these articles and blogs give for a second novel being difficult is: The first novel is autobiographic/semi-autobiographic and had been being 'written' for years before fingers ever hit the keyboard. That there is more pressure, people are waiting for the book, you have 'readers'. That if you're uncontracted (as I was) for that second book then the pressure is double because that might be it, game over, The End. I recognise all of these symptoms and I know I'm not alone, the writers I've spoken to about this gave their own stories of procrastination, despair, manic optimism over an idea only to realise it is pure panic-driven madness. 
But, I live to tell the tale (boom boom). So here's how I slayed the second-novel dragon:
I quit my job, gave up my flat, used every single penny I had and took myself off to Vietnam for four months. I don't recommend this first step unless you're feeling very brave and you know in advance that Hanoi is actually absolutely fucking freezing over the winter months but it did mean it was all or nothing in getting it finished.
I have always tried  pragmatic about writing; it's a job and there are jobs that are tougher, much tougher. Writing is a joy, having the freedom to write what we choose is a privilege many don't have. Whenever I felt myself slipping into angst because a scene wasn't working and thus becoming a little too fond of my South East Asian hot toddy (made with lime and Vietnamese whisky) I'd remember how lucky I was and Just Bloody Get On With It.
I was methodical. I had a schedule of when all of the editorial drafts needed to be completed; structural, a scene by scene rework (10 pages a day), another draft for the development of each of the main characters and a read aloud. Before I began reworking anything, I reread it and wrote down what was happening on the page and what I wanted to happen. I didn't always stick to the schedule and the notes didn't always help but at least I knew how far behind I actually was when I was slipping.
I downloaded Scrivener. Scrivener, you little beauty! My second book has two protagonists and three separate timelines. A huge, and very technical, departure from Tony Hogan. Scriveners functionality saved me from rocking in a corner while chewing on my own hair.
I stopped thinking about the Other Stuff. Other stuff is: the response to your first book, comparisons to the first book, fears of only having one book in you, terror that your publisher is buying other new books that might be like yours, other writers already publishing their second books, the voice in your head that is always ready to tear a strip off you. Instead, I just thought about the story, how vulnerable my characters were and how I wanted to do them justice.
So that's it really: Arse to seat, organise, get Scrivener, get out of your own head and into the story. Sounds easy. It bloody well isn't but it is worth it; as my debut comes out in paperback I know next July Thirst, my second novel, will be on shelves next to it. And I'm no longer Googling scary articles about the trouble with second novels so can spend more time looking at pictures of pissed off animals in fancy dress on Buzzfeed.

Ah, I'm so glad Kerry has managed to write her way through any worry and really look forward to reading Thirst when it comes out. For now though she's organised a competition to win a signed copy of Tony Hogan...

'Want to win a signed copy of Tony Hogan? I'm trying to put together a Tony Hogan soundtrack. Simply submit your song suggestion to me @kerryswindow on Twitter with the hashtag #tonyhogantune by the end of Tuesday 9th of July. If your song is one of the ten selected for the soundtrack (and you were the first to suggest it!) I'll send you a signed copy of Tony Hogan.' 

You'd best get cracking eh? You can find out more about Kerry at her website, and follow her on twitter @KerrysWindow.

The Humans by Matt Haig

Maths professor Andrew Martin has been "taken by the hosts" and replaced by an alien who takes his form. The Vonnodorian's are a race who believe Martin's solving of the Riemann hypothesis will lead to human space travel, and so the solution must be destroyed, along with anyone else Martin divulged the details to.

Haig sets out his stall in the preface. Through these alien eyes he will reveal to us what it is to be human. His alien will report to his fellow Vonnodorian's about us. He will gently poke fun at the ridiculous things we humans do, but he will also illuminate the essence of who we are. In pretending to be human, Andrew Martin, or rather, the alien Andrew Martin, will discover that no matter how evolved and superior his own race, nothing compares to human love.

In snappy little chapters the alien relates the story, which ostensibly is about him tracking down people who may know of Martin's Riemann hypothesis breakthrough, but of course is merely a vehicle for Haig's observations. He's a thoughtful and skilled writer, what could be trite bite sized homilies are actually resonant and wonderful pieces of wisdom.

I don't want to spoiler things with any further plot development, but I do want to share two brilliant quotes, so as to entice you to buy this for yourself.

Firstly funny/true, "I realized that if getting drunk was how people forgot they were mortal, then hangovers were how they remembered."

And then profound, "Your mind is a galaxy. More dark than light. But the light makes it worthwhile. Which is to say, don't kill yourself. Even when the darkness is total. Always know that life is not still. Time is space. You are moving through that galaxy. Wait for the stars."

Those nine sentences may just be the most beautiful and important words I've read.

Rattle Tales Anthology

Rattle Tales host lively story telling evenings in Brighton, and invited me to read at one of their evenings last October. I'm chuffed they've included my flash fiction in their second anthology, alongside stories by Rattle Tales dynamo Erinna Mettler, Paul McVeigh, and 23 other Sussex writers. For a couple of quid you can download the book here or you can order a printed copy here.

My voice(s)

Beat The Dust invited submissions for their latest literary experiment. They asked for pieces of 500 words or less, taking as the start point an end line you thought good.

I took my line from Jenni Fagan's excellent novel The Panopticon and wrote "Again".

It struck me how the voice I used was at once my own voice, and not my voice. It's how I speak, sometimes. It's not how I speak usually. It is my voice. It's in my head. It feels comfortable, natural. It's not how my mum sounds, but my dad and brothers do. When I go home, back to where I was raised, that voice, a blending of Essex and East London, a sweary shorthand, feels very usual. Now it's published, and I read it back, I feel awkward in case someone thinks it's a patronising kind of mimicry. If you meet me now I probably won't sound like that. If we have a few drinks in the pub I may well do. (I won't ever say "nothink" though, I hate that erroneous "k"). My dad is originally from Ireland. He speaks with a British Essex accent but if he meets up with his family his Irish accent reappears. When I was young it sounded like another language. It's interesting, is it a fake accent or is it his voice?

Seeing as how it's a piece of fiction anyway it shouldn't make any odds. But it does, to me. Hence this post.

I really appreciate the work Melissa Mann does with BTD. I like how she invites us to play and stretch and keep on pushing our words. It's an interesting journal. Oh, and I LOVED choosing my five fave intros. There would be a different five today probably.

Failure

I entered the Mslexia short story competition this year. My favourite writer, Janice Galloway, was the judge, so it was a must. It’s an excellent competition in an excellent magazine. I sent what I consider finished, polished, strong work, and got nowhere. Ah well, that’s the way it goes. I put a flippant post up about it on Facebook, and was heartened by the responses I got, both on the post and in private messages. Many writer friends entered this competition and didn’t make it either. Amongst them are a couple of poets who have collections published, short story authors, again with published collections, and a few published novelists. Professional writers with awesome CV’s entered and failed. That they shared this with me was enormously helpful so I thought I’d share it here in the hope it helps someone else too. I know the quality of these women’s writing. They are damn good. So, let’s remember that another judge may have picked a different final six. What resonates with me may not with you. It’s easy enough to weed out bad writing, but when you have, say, thirty stories all containing good quality writing, it will be about what speaks to the individual reader. If I read the stories belonging to the writers I spoke with on facebook I’m fairly sure I would favour one over the others despite knowing they are all fine writers.

A writer who has judged several competitions told me she only ever sees the entries the first readers have decided should make up the long-list. Who knows, Galloway may have adored my words if she'd ever got to read them, but my genius went unrecognised in the initial sifting process. (Yeah, ok, unlikely, but hey, it's my thought, I can have it if I want.)

 I’ve won competitions before, and I’ve obviously lost them too. Winning is a delightful, validating, endorsement. Losing is a huge blow. It makes you question your worth as a writer. One of the things that was discussed on my Facebook page was that some of the writers had gone back over their entries and were truly surprised to not be able to see obvious edits they could make. I do a great line in self hatred, and the first thought on losing is usually that the story isn’t good enough, and that one was delusional in thinking it might have stood a chance. That’s nonsense, the same story that flops in one place can, and does, succeed elsewhere. That’s not to say improvements can’t be made. Do re-read with a critical eye - change what leaps out, then look for somewhere fabulous to submit to. Keep going. Remember why you write in the first place. I don’t write in the hope of winning competitions, I write because I have this impulse to fictionalise things. It’s part of my being. If I can then share those words and communicate with people, then all the better. If I can get recognition for it, well, better still. Financial recompense would be amazing. I’d love to win ALL the competitions and be published everywhere, but even if I never win anything again, I’m going to keep on writing. Don’t lose sight of the heart of your words. Oh, and to the person who told me (kindly) it might be off-putting to potential publishers to mention failures, I don’t believe that is true.

In his superb book "The Antidote" Oliver Burkeman has this to say about failure:

Fortunately, developing a healthier approach to failure may be easier than you'd think. The work of the Stanford University psychologist Carol Dweck suggests that our experiences of failure are influenced overwhelmingly by the beliefs we hold about the nature of talent and ability – and that we can, perhaps quite straightforwardly, nudge ourselves towards a better outlook. Each of us can be placed somewhere on a continuum, Dweck argues, depending on our "implicit view" – or unspoken attitude – about what talent is and where it comes from. Those with a "fixed theory" assume that ability is innate; those with an "incremental theory" believe that it evolves through challenge and hard work. If you're the kind of person who strives mightily to avoid the experience of failure, it's likely that you reside near the "fixed" end of Dweck's continuum. Fixed-theory people approach challenges as occasions on which they are called upon to demonstrate their innate abilities, and so they find failure especially horrifying: to them, it's a sign that they tried to show how good they are, but didn't measure up. The classic example is the young sports star encouraged to think of himself as a "natural" – but who then fails to put in sufficient practice to realise his potential. If talent is innate, his unspoken reasoning goes, then why bother?
Incremental-theory people are different. Because they think of abilities as emerging through tackling challenges, the experience of failure has a completely different meaning for them: it's evidence that they are stretching themselves to their current limits. If they weren't, they wouldn't fail. The relevant analogy here is with weight training: muscles grow by being pushed to the limits of their current capacity, where fibres tear and reheal. Among weightlifters, "training to failure" isn't an admission of defeat – it's a strategy.
Happily, Dweck's studies indicate that we are not saddled for life with one mindset rather than another. Some people manage to alter their outlook simply by being introduced to the fixed versus incremental distinction. Alternatively, it's worth trying to recall it next time failure strikes: next time you flunk an exam, or mishandle a social situation, consider that it's happening only because you're pushing at the limits of your present abilities.

You can read a little more here.  I'm hoping to learn how to see failure as an essential part of life, and stop being so afraid of it - I'm definitely more of a fixed theory person and am hoping to persuade my mind to allow me to become more of an incremental kinda gal.

Matt

It's hard to believe that there have been five years without Matt. I'm lucky, he's still in my heart, and my head, I can read his words and listen to his music, I can still conjure him, but damn, he's missed. This is track 7 from his album Evenings of Ordinary Sand - 15 Yayli Tanbur Taksimleri, and it'd be good if you took the time to listen (if you feel like it). Matt played the Yayli Tanbur beautifully. Not only was he the best bass player I've ever heard, he also adored more unusual instruments too, the oddest being the trumpet marine. The illustrations are his too.

Julian Barnes - Levels of Life

Divided into sections entitled The Sin of Height, On the Level and The Loss of Depth, this is Barnes on death. I was going to write "having lost his wife to cancer" but know now how much he would hate that woolly sounding phrase, so - Barne's wife Pat Kavanagh died four years ago after being with him for thirty years, and this book is an exploration of loss.

I'm not even going to attempt to write a review, I'm just going to say that Barnes is a superb writer, and this stunning book should be read by everyone. Here in clear, precise prose is the truth of the griefstruck. Essential.

The Antidote by Oliver Burkeman

I don't read self-help books although I have done in the past, when I was young and far less cynical. I loathe positive thinking. I think it's at best delusional, and at worst severely damaging. The early part of this year was pretty fucking tough for me. An endurance. At work one day I picked up the Burkeman book, intrigued by the subtitle "Happiness for people who can't stand positive thinking", and had a flick through. It looked actually useful, and I surprised myself by buying it. To be honest, initially I was most struck by the notion of stoicism and the acceptance of negativity. It fitted with where I was in life, and I took some comfort from what I read. I tried to use it to help me get through each day. As the situation around me improved and I was able to start thinking about getting back to writing, the parts about failure chimed loudly with me. I hope to be able to utilise some of the things I've learnt very soon.

Those of you who know me will be aware I usually wear a skull in some form - jewellery or clothing or a scarf etcetera. My love of skulls began when working at The Museum of Mankind. There was an amazing Mexican Day of the Dead exhibition which I adored. The acceptance of death seems the most sensible thing we can do in order to appreciate life, yet it's hard to find the balance between awareness and fear. So often we blank it out as much as possible so as not to frighten ourselves senseless. I wear skulls to remind myself I am mortal, and also, because they are so darn cute. Burkeman has an excellent chapter on death. 

I feel like I need to refer back to The Antidote - as I read I highlighted pertinent sections and found I'd nearly highlighted the entire book. It's a guidebook to life, and I highly recommend it.

Fiction trio

These are three of the books I have read recently.

"Infinite Sky" is a YA treat.  One hot summer Iris's mother leaves Iris, her dad, and brother, and shortly afterwards a group of travellers set up camp in the family's field, much to her father's annoyance. What makes this novel stand out is how Flood depicts the ennui, struggles, and hopes of youth so brilliantly in this tale of star crossed lovers. 

The Night Rainbow is another sun-drenched story. Set in rural France and narrated by five year old Pea the novel manages to be charming despite its dark shadow of death. Pea plays outside with her little sister so not to bother their sad Maman. And Maman doesn't know that Claude, a man viewed with suspicion by the other villagers, is paying very close attention. A perfect Book Club read, King captures the innocence and wonder of childhood beautifully.

Spellbound proves "Lad Lit" doesn't have to be shallow - this is a bright and engaging collection of short stories that have real depth. Willans respects women, and that comes through strongly. (I imagine he has plenty of female friends.) These “stories of women’s magic over men” combine pathos, wit, and humour, with a sprinkle of romance, love, and cynicism. 

Instructions For A Heatwave by Maggie O'Farrell

Instructions For A Heatwave by Maggie O'Farrell has just been published by Tinder Press and is simply wonderful. As I read I had that delicious feeling of sinking into the novel, trusting the story to unfold beautifully, knowing I was in the hands of an expert. The huge difference between short stories and novels is how one can relax with a novel and savour it over a period of time. It becomes something to look forward to in a day, a treat, whereas a short story has to be read in one go - there's an urgency to it, an immediacy.

Set in July 1976 when the UK was in the midst of a heatwave this tells the story of the Riordans, a family who reunite when Robert Riordan, a retired banker, goes out for his morning paper and doesn't return. 

Festering bad feelings between sisters Aoife and Monica come to a head, their mother, Gretta, a familiar Irish matriarchal type (who reminds me of some of my aunts) reveals long held secrets, son Michael Francis and his wife have a relationship at breaking point, and Aoife has carried a secret of her own all her life. O'Farrell reveals their truths with perfect timing. And oh, the pictures she paints are glorious. Her writing is gorgeous, the words slip by, effortlessly creating images and racking up the tension as if in a thriller.

"The beach and water shimmer and refract in the heat; seaweed dries to rocks; sand cracks and powders in the sun."

And aren't you seeing that beach now?

Highly recommended.

Louis CK is absolutely the most fun I'm having right now

Source: google.com via Sara on Pinterest

Born Weird by Andrew Kaufman

The latest fiction from Andrew Kaufman is substantially longer than his much loved "All My Friends Are Superheroes", but Born Weird thankfully shares a lot of the charm and quirky goodness that made his debut such a bookshop favourite (and a genuine word-of-mouth hit). 

The five Weird siblings, Richard, Lucy, Abba, Kent and Angie, don't know they were "blursed" (blessed and cursed) at birth by their grandmother, Annie - "The Shark". The special powers she bestowed haven't enhanced their lives in the way she intended, and as adults each of them struggles. 

Predicting her own demise, Annie instructs Angie to gather her brothers and sisters in Annie's hospital room at the moment of her death, when she will remove the powers. What follows is a very filmic romp as Angie attempts to round 'em up in time. I can see this as one of those cool indie movies; it's very Little Miss Sunshine.

Along the way there's the mystery of their father's disappearance to solve, dodgy haircuts courtesy of the mother who fails to recognise them, a car chase, a pregnancy, a couple of love stories and a fake town. It's a big hearted, entertaining and charming read, which is just as we'd expect.

Snapper by Brian Kimberling

Tinder Press is a new literary imprint from the Headline group. They will publish 10-12 books a year, starting this spring, and according to its associate publisher, Leah Woodburn, their books will be “... books to treasure, books you will want to keep—and our production values will reflect this. We will produce beautiful hardbacks and innovative e-books for first format, followed by paperbacks with strong mass-market appeal.”

The list looks interesting and includes Maggie O’Farrell’s next novel. 

They sent me a proof of Snapper by Brain Kimberling which bears the tagline “Birdwatching’s no line of work for a man…”

Kimberling was “a research assistant for a major study of Indiana songbirds” as is his narrator, Nathan Lochmueller, and Snapper is really a collection of Nathan’s stories in which he tells us anecdotes from his adolescence and life as a young man, closing with a story in which he is about to become a father, and thus, presumably, an adult.

Weaving throughout the stories is the character of Lola, a gorgeous young woman whom Nathan idolises and occasionally gets to be with before she floats away with yet another unsuitable suitor. 

In my time reading for PANK magazine I’ve come across hundreds of submissions by American males which involve guns, hunting, drugs, beer and women. They are staples of American short stories, and I suppose that’s my main problem with this collection, it felt very familiar. However, thinking on, if you don’t read for an American literary journal then it’s unlikely you will have read umpteen similar tales. Crucially these stories are well-written with a powerful sense of place. The author seems to have a love/hate relationship with his home and conveys well both the beauty and the ugliness. Kimberling’s knowledge of birds can be fascinating, but, I confess, at times I felt a little bored. 

The stand out story for me was “Box County” which opens with the line, “Uncle Dart and Aunt Loretta didn’t just come from Texas, they brought it with them.”

It’s an exploration of the difference between the Texan racism of Uncle Dart and the burning hatred of the Southern Klansmen he finds himself entangled with. It has much to say about home and belonging, family, and nature. 

I think this is one of those books that didn’t quite chime with me but will hold magic for others. 

Not really a best of the year with salt

This is not really one of those end of year best lists as it relies solely upon my rubbish ability to recall what I have watched, read, listened to and thought for a whole year. So, instead I'll call it a "thing" - tada:

Keith Ridgway's Hawthorn and Child is my most memorable read of 2012. My review is here and I love that despite reading it in August I am still thinking about it in January.

Honourable mentions to Kerry Hudson's Tony Hogan Bought Me an Ice Cream Float Before He Stole My Ma which fair fizzes off the page, and Jenni Fagan's superb The Panopticon (review here).

2012 began with me adoring Nicki Minaj. She seemed poised to be the smartest, coolest rapper/singer/hip-hopper in the universe. But then… that didn't happen.

I don't know what I did before Spotify, making my own playlists makes me so damn happy. I surprised myself by listening to my "Beans. Cheese. Toast." playlist far more than "Hip Hop Happiness" or "Goodness". Turns out you can't beat damn fine pop. I did really like Mark Lanegan's "Blues Funeral" - it sounded proper. And I rediscovered my love of Pearl Jam.

Telly was Elementary, The Mentalist, Chicago Fire, Home and Away and Neighbours (always) and my absolute fave - Sons of Anarchy. Edit - Oh, and Homeland of course. I am ever so slightly obsessed  with how awesome Clare Dane's nose is.

I took these snaps on New Years Day when I went for a walk on Littlehampton Beach - it was a day bright with possibility and made me feel entirely content. I wish you all a wonderful 2013.

sunseaseasun

Life gets pretty fucksy at times. It's hard. It's not always what we hoped for, not the way we dreamt it could be. I like to reference Dave Grohl, guru of all literary types, when he said "You just fucking play the hand you're dealt." That's all we can do, right? So, I don't have much time for writing, and that makes me feel a bit weird. I process life by writing so not writing means, perhaps, that I absorb a lot of what's happening without dealing with it in my usual way. I've been looking for other ways to stay strong and finding enormous solace in nature. Look at the sea. The moon. Stars. Trees. Flowers. These are the things that help me breathe. And the Prosecco. Hoho. Anyway, I took a couple of photos/snaps in Worthing and they are pretty damn gorgeous. Thought I'd share.

Worthing sunset