Jilya

I can't remember where I heard about Tracy Westerman's book Jilya -- I think I might have seen a mention of it on Facebook (sometimes it is useful for some things!) Published in 2024, it's subtitled How one Indigenous woman from the remote Pilbara transformed psychology, and it is concerned with two of my favourite areas of interest: psychology and First Nations culture.

Jilya means 'my child,' and Westerman's focus is squarely on Aboriginal child suicides. The rates of children taking their own lives, especially in remote or disadvantaged First Nations communities, are truly horrific, and should be a huge mental health priority. Westerman has zeroed in on the shortage of psychological supports in these areas as a primary factor, as well as multi-generational trauma and multi-generational difficulties in forming secure childhood attachment.

Jilya outlines some fascinating differences between mainstream Western assumptions and Aboriginal culture -- for example, Aboriginal child-rearing practices that might look like 'neglect' to white, middle class social workers. There is a lot in this book about trauma, including everyday racism, deep grief and loss, and the legacy of familial disruption -- such a heavy burden for individuals, let alone whole communities to bear. But Jilya is also the story of Westerman's own life, and her decades of struggle to establish better data collection and protocols for dealing with Aboriginal communities. There is another whole story there about politics, trying to run a private business, and philanthropy, which I won't begin to try to untangle.

I found the middle sections of the book, about applying specific techniques and practices to First Nations individuals, families and communities, the most compelling, but the whole of Jilya is a riveting and powerful read. More power to Tracy Westerman's arm -- she is accomplishing some amazing work.
 

Bad Behaviour

I was intrigued to read about Rebecca Starford's memoir, Bad Behaviour, on Susan Green's blog (my go-to source for interesting next reads). Starford writes about her year on a rural school campus at fourteen; it's not stated, but it's probably Geelong Grammar's famous Timbertop. Year 9 is a notoriously difficult time for adolescents (though I have heard that Year 8 is the new Year 9). I remember my own Year 9 experience as horribly painful, as friendship groups shifted and I found myself excluded (it all worked out fine in the end).

Bad Behaviour reads like a novel, with memories of events at Silver Creek intercut with reflections of Rebecca's later life, especially her relationships, which were clearly affected by patterns that were set up in that fateful year. I have to say that Silver Creek sounds awful, Starford's experience of it at least. Her dormitory house was ruled by a bully and her clique, who egged on Bec and others to escalating feats of cruel and stupid rule-breaking. It takes a long time for Bec to realise she'd be better off with different friends, and it's hard to comprehend the appeal of the mean girls (I am a steadfast goody-goody, so the glamour of bad behaviour is lost on me). 

Starford writes with compelling immediacy about the ebbs and flows of teen friendship and the weird power that charismatic individuals can wield, though I was less invested in the later relationship dramas of her twenties. Mostly Bad Behaviour made me thankful that I'm not fourteen anymore, and I'd be interested to find out how teenagers would respond to it.

Your Name is Not Anxious

Anxiety sucks. I've been there, so have most of my family and some of my friends. It's not a place you want to dwell, or even visit for very long. Stephanie Dowrick, who has had her own mental health battles, has written a friendly, approachable guide for sufferers, reminding us that while anxiety can feel overwhelming, it is not our whole identity; that it's vital to treat ourselves with compassion and kindness, rather than blame and guilt; that anxiety is a whole-body experience, not just 'in our minds;' that there are emergency measures we can take in a moment of crisis (breathing techniques, cold water, reducing causes of stress (can be easier said than done!)).

It's all great advice, delivered in short, easily-digested chapters, and the book is designed for dipping in and out as needed, rather than being read cover to cover, which is what I did. Much of the material is reinforced in more than one place, which is helpful -- in my experience, these messages need repeating over and over, and even then they sometimes don't sink in. I can imagine Your Name is Not Anxious as a comforting bedside companion, to be used in times of crisis along with professional therapeutic help, exercise and medication if needed; I don't think it would be enough to pull you out of an episode on its own. There are also personal stories from others who have wrestled with OCD, body anxieties and addiction, and come out the other side, which is always a good reminder. The dark valley can seem like a long, deep crevasse at times, and it's helpful to remember that it can and does end.

Grace

I bought Grace on impulse from Brotherhood Books because I love Jill Paton Walsh, even though I knew nothing about the book. It's a young adult novel, published in 1991, telling the story of 1830s heroine Grace Darling. I knew the broad outline of her feat -- that Grace, a lighthouse keeper's daughter, had helped to row a boat to rescue survivors from a shipwreck, and became famous enough to have a pub in Collingwood named after her, on the other side of the world -- but no more than that.

Maybe because I had no expectations, I thought Grace was amazing (see what I did there). The first part of the novel faithfully recounts the events of the rescue and what followed: Grace swiftly became a folk heroine, an exemplar of courage and strength which went against Victorian expectations of what a young woman could achieve. In the second part of the novel, Paton Walsh allows herself to imagine more freely the effect of this sudden and overwhelming attention on Grace, who was only twenty two, though she sticks to historical sources where they're available. Grace is showered with gold medals, public concerts raise money for her, she receives thousands of letters and gifts, all of which require a reply. 

The dark side of this fame is something that I had never suspected. An official lifeboat from the mainland also set out to rescue the survivors from the rock, but arrived there just after Grace and her father had plucked them to safety. Though they were equally brave and faced the same violence of sea and storm, lifeboat crews were rewarded according to the number of survivors they saved, and the Darlings had gazumped them. Grace and her father did their best to make sure that the crew were also recognised and paid for their efforts, the avalanche of public attention and money heaped on Grace caused bad feeling in the local town. In Paton Walsh's story, Grace becomes increasingly tormented that she might have performed her brave deed for the sake of the reward, not from pure altruism. Tragically, Grace died from tuberculosis only a few years after the Forfar rescue.

I found Grace a totally engaging ethical and moral examination of fame and courage, and the consequences of celebrity. As Grace herself recognises, it became impossible for her to marry -- she was too rich to be a suitable mate to a simple, ill-educated fisherman, but at the same time, she was too socially lowly to marry a man from a higher station in life. She became famous all over the world, but her fame was a terrible burden from which she could never be free. This was an unexpectedly moving and thought-provoking novel.
 

Winter's Gifts

Another Rivers of London novella from Ben Aaronovitch. Winter's Gifts takes us across the Atlantic to snowbound Wisconsin, with FBI agent Kimberley Reynolds as our protagonist. While she mentions (and once telephones) Peter Grant and the Folly in London, the focus is entirely on her and her hunt for a mysterious and vengeful supernatural creature.

I very much enjoyed this foray onto another continent, and Kim is good company: smart, resourceful and capable. There's a satisfying amount of action, with explosions, severed limbs, several frantic pursuits, a tentacled beast rising from a frozen lake, and even some pashing. We meet a Native American spirit in the form of a fourteen year old boy, which is a nice touch. I must admit that I wasn't entirely clear at the end of the story exactly what the evil object was, but maybe that was due to my inattentive reading -- I do tend to let the details wash over me when I'm reading Rivers of London books and just enjoy the ride.

Darkest Night, Brightest Star

Darkest Night, Brightest Star is a fantastic inclusion on the CBCA Notables list -- a really timely, pertinent and immediate book about Australian masculinity. Barry Jonsberg is an elder statesman of Australian YA writing, and he turns his former teacher's eye on the kind of boy I bet he saw a lot of in his classrooms. Morgan is thirteen, not interested in school, growing up with his dad and older brother after his mother left the family when he was just two. Morgan is not articulate; he keeps himself to himself, and not surprisingly, he's internalised a lot of not-great messages from the men in his family, who believe in never showing emotion (especially not vulnerability or fear), belittling women, and physical toughness as the measure of a man. But Morgan befriends Gray (who turns out to be gay); he'd rather look after plants than kick a ball on the soccer field; and his innate kindness comes to the fore when he starts helping out an old woman, Mary, who has a muddled idea that Morgan might be her own long-lost son.

Darkest Night, Brightest Star has a tight cast of characters. Sometimes the reader is able to draw connections that Morgan is a little slower to make. Morgan makes plenty of mistakes as he goes along, but he's lucky to have a handful of people in his life who really care about him, and at the end of the day, that's all any of us can ask for. The book doesn't wrap up everything in a tidy bow, but there is hope for Morgan (maybe not for his dad, who is not a great guy -- though Jonsberg drops us some hints about he became the damaged person that he is, and how he's passed on that legacy to his elder son). I hope boys read this book and perhaps see something of themselves in Morgan. I really liked it. The only element that Jonsberg hasn't tried to deal with here is the pernicious influence of the online 'manosphere' (I wish we had a better name for it), but maybe that's too big a topic to shoehorn into a short novel.

Fahrenheit 451

It came out during dinner with friends that I had never read Ray Bradbury's classic, Fahrenheit 451, and Sue immediately jumped up to pull it from her shelves. It made a big impression on her when she studied it at school, and many of the details, as well as the central message, had stuck with her for decades.

I can see why it's become a school text staple. Fahrenheit 451 is a novel of ideas, first and foremost. In a society where books are outlawed and ritually burned when they're discovered, the population are kept docile on a diet of shallow entertainment provided by screens and ear-'seashells' and war is a constant threat, it's no wonder that in some ways Bradbury's novel seems even more relevant today that it was in 1953. Fireman Montag works at setting fires, not putting them out, and over the space of a few days, becomes first quietly questioning, then fully radicalised to oppose the prevailing social structure, ending in a thrilling pursuit and a cataclysmic ending.

But... it didn't really work for me. Apparently it was written in a frenzy and needed quite a bit of editing to pull it into shape. I wasn't totally convinced by the world-building, though the ubiquitous screens certainly seem prescient -- there are plenty of logical holes in the story and the characters' reactions don't always make sense. But the size of the concepts and the breathless pace of events would sweep younger readers along, and the ideas the novel raises definitely need to be aired. Maybe if I'd read it when I was 14, it would have worked magic on me? 

The Jane Austen Book Club

I'm not at all surprised that Karen Joy Fowler's 2004 novel, The Jane Austen Book Club, became an international bestseller and was made into a movie. I checked out the trailer and was disappointed that I only could only recognise a couple of the characters, so I suspect they were cast without close reference to the book. I don't think the movie performed all that well. The novel, on the other hand, was a delight, easy to read, with subtle and not-so-subtle allusions to Jane Austen's novels, without assuming an intimate knowledge of Austen in the reader.

Fowler presents us with six characters, mostly middle aged ladies, but including one younger daughter and one bloke. The bloke, Grigg, is a lot of fun -- he is a computer geek whose first literary love is science fiction, and who has never read any Jane Austen before. The ladies' initial bristling suspicion of him is lovely, and I adored the scenes where he and Jocelyn meet -- he is at a sci fi con and she is at a dog breeders' conference, and there are some gorgeous crossed wires. 

There is a section at the back of the book where Fowler gives synopses of each Austen novel, and a hilarious collection of reviews, starting with Jane's own family and friends and moving through two hundred years' worth of admirers and detractors. I doubt anyone would approach this book unless they were already a Janeite, but fans of Austen will find comfort and pleasure in these pages. 
 

He

I have been re-reading Helen Garner's trilogy of diaries, which roughly follow the story of her relationship with author Murray Bail, anonymised in the diaries as 'V' (though it's certainly not hard to find out his real identity). At one point he objects strongly to the idea that she is writing about him in her diary, and anticipates with horror and dread the day when they might be published, or read by academics, and her private portrait of him and their marriage will become public -- which is exactly what has happened, and it's true, the image of him that emerges from those pages is far from flattering. She argues back that she can't live fully without writing in her diary, that the diary is what makes it possible for her to live her life at all. Eventually she agrees not to write about him except in the barest, most functional way, a resolve which is soon broken. But I thought, from some sense of fairness, that the least I could do was to read Bail's own account of himself, and see how things looked from his side.

He is not exactly an autobiography. It's composed of fragments of memory and reflection, some floating free of context, all couched in the safely distancing third person point of view. He does mention his first and second wives (Garner was number two), without naming them, and expresses admiration for Garner's writing without disclosing their relationship! In her diaries, Garner often bemoans V's refusal to admit to feeling or expressing emotion, and it would be hard to imagine a more clinical piece of autobiographical writing, in which the word 'I' never appears!

He is, however, a beautiful work, filled with evocative images and remembrance, though the meaning of each fragment and their connection to each other is left for the reader to put together. I did feel I had a bit of an advantage in understanding Bail's character after seeing him through Garner's eyes -- at first intrigued, then in love, then increasingly frustrated, and finally devastated. Reading He was an interesting exercise, and a window into a certain kind of man's perception of the world. But I'm not sure I want to spend too much time inside his head.
 

What Rhymes With Murder

Disclaimer: I made friends with Penny Tangey at a posh school literature festival in Queensland when I was a relatively baby author and she had just published her first novel, Loving Richard Feynman, which I absolutely adored. Already her trademark droll wit was much in evidence, and it's been a consistent element of her work whether she's writing for a middle grade or young adult audience, or now for adults. (Recently I loved Music Camp.)

What Rhymes With Murder? is a mystery story, but the real pleasure of this book lies in the voice of Frida, a new mum who is anxious about everything, especially harm coming to her six month old baby, Finn, after an earlier miscarriage. Tangey is superb at interweaving genuine emotion with humour, and the reader's heart goes out to poor panicking Frida who can't get down the stairs from her apartment, as well as laughing at her put-upon, passive-aggressive hints to her partner about the housework.

 I pop Finn on his playmat and check on the machine. I plonk the clean washing into a basket then carry it to the lounge room, where I wrench open the balcony door. Outside I drop the basket with a thud.

    Ben asks, 'Are you okay?'

    'Yes. Just hanging out the wash.' As per usual.

    'Do you want me to do that?' 

    I shake my head. I don't want him to do it. I want him to have done it already.

There was an extra delight for me in the East Melbourne setting: my elder daughter has just moved into a tiny apartment in East Melbourne and I loved recognising the parks and thinly-disguised cafes of the area (I bought my copy of the book at the General Store which is surely the model for the 'Gipps St Cafe'.) There is a lot of coffee in this novel!

But there are serious themes here too, mostly about reproduction. Frida's post-natal mental health battles, anti-abortion activists, a local reproductive clinic suffering attacks from the same group, a group of three co-parents, a yearning grandmother, a childless professional -- and much of the action takes place at the library! What Rhymes With Murder? is very Melbourne and a lovely read.
 

What Abigail Did That Summer

What Abigail Did That Summer is a novella, less than 200 pages, set during the same time as Foxglove Summer. There's some suggestion that this is a young adult spinoff, designed to draw in younger readers to the Rivers of London series, which makes sense. Our narrator is Abigail Kumara, Peter Grant's thirteen year old cousin, who also has magical abilities and is beginning to be mentored at the Folly. 

There are a lot of reasons why this story might appeal to younger readers -- there are talking foxes! Missing teens (who are all returned unharmed). A sassy, streetwise, smart-mouthed heroine who can summon up river goddesses for advice. And the plot of What Abigail Did is a fair bit milder than most of the Peter Grant novels, which can contain some very dark material. The thing is, I'm not sure that Rivers of London needs a special YA gateway; I'm pretty sure that YA readers are quite capable of discovering and enjoying the regular novels all on their own. And I'm also not sure that Abigail's voice is totally convincing as a thirteen year old Black girl? (I must say that Abigail narrated parts of Stone & Sky and her voice was better handled in that later novel.)

Having said all that, I really enjoyed What Abigail Did, and especially the poignant source of the mystery, which is a house that's kind of come alive and kidnaps teens to act out memorable scenes from its past (shades of Tumbleglass). One aspect of the Rivers of London books I really relish is the awareness and inclusion of history. Those references just sit a tiny bit uneasily in Abigail's mouth, for me.
 

Project Hail Mary

My younger daughter is a big fan of space, and she loved Andy Weir's previous book (and the movie) The Martian, so she was very excited both for this novel and the film which has just been released, starring another favourite, Ryan Gosling. (She went to see a preview of Project Hail Mary at IMax, and we are going together to see it again next week.)

Andy Weir is very good at writing about science and using science to solve specific problems. There's no hand-wavery here (not that I can detect, anyway). In The Martian, we saw a marooned astronaut figuring out how to survive on Mars. Project Hail Mary widens the scope of the drama to put the entire Earth in jeopardy, when a light-feeding life form starts devouring the sun. The whole of humanity unites to solve this problem (pity we can't seem to do this for the climate crisis) and it ends up with, again, a single astronaut, Ryland Grace, far, far out in space, having to work out what to do to save the world. This time our sole survivor is joined by an extra-terrestrial who looks like a spider, uses hearing instead of sight as their primary sense, and 'speaks' with sound, who has come from his own home world to solve the same emergency, which he calls, 'bad bad bad.'

Some of my favourite scenes in the novel are the ones where Grace and Rocky are working out how to communicate with each other and work together, despite the differences in their physiology. It's lucky that Rocky's culture is broadly compatible with that of an American high school science teacher and they can get along so well. I had a quibble when Grace noted that Rocky calls him the Eridian equivalent of the word 'grace,' which, given the religious and historical freight of that word in English, raised more questions about Rocky's planet than could possibly be answered.

Weir does an excellent job of continually raising the stakes and throwing obstacles at his characters; he also skilfully uses flashback and Grace's initial amnesia to reveal the backstory of events on Earth. Honestly I was more interested in the Rocky/Grace timeline but it was all fun. I can't wait for the movie, which my daughter reviewed as 'amaze! amaze! amaze!' 

Hour of the Heart

Irvin Yalom is well into his nineties, still writing and until relatively recently, still practising as a therapist. Hour of the Heart was published in 2024 with the assistance of his son Ben, who has a background in theatre but has now also trained as a therapist. Hour of the Heart was written after the death of Irvin's beloved wife Marilyn; he realised that with his unreliable memory and lowered energy levels, it was no longer possible for him to offer long term therapy to patients, but instead decided to try single sessions with a new client each day, often over Zoom. 

Hour of the Heart presents a score of stories from these sessions, which involved clients from all over the world (interestingly, there were a few from Melbourne, perhaps reflecting the high anxiety and distress caused by prolonged Covid lockdowns here). Yalom is upfront about the limitations of offering a single therapeutic session, just one hour, but he also recognises that with his vast experience and established authority, he can cut through more quickly than other therapists might. Sometimes this backfires, as patients are over-awed by his reputation or project father difficulties onto Irv and become tongue-tied, but Yalom finds some tricks to accelerate insights -- he reveals more of his weaknesses and fears to establish a quick rapport, and he turns the tables and invites clients to ask him questions. This techniques can produce some surprising results.

But finally, sadly, Dr Irv finds himself in a confronting conversation with a doctor who has begun to suffer the effects of dementia. To his horror, when he comes to write up the session, Yalom finds he has completely blanked out what they said to each other, perhaps because this subject matter brushed so close to his own anxieties about getting old and becoming incompetent. According to son Ben, this was the last session Yalom ever held with a patient. It's a sad ending to an extraordinary and generous career, but Hour of the Heart is also a wonderful testament to Yalom's willingness to keep learning and experimenting for as long as he possibly could (and apparently yet another book is in the works, this time the final, final work).
 

Dancer in the Wings

I bought Dancer in the Wings (1958) at the same time as Principal Rôle, which was a bit of a self-indulgent impulse -- I've now acquired five of these Lorna Hill ballet books in hard cover, purely from childhood nostalgia. 

Dancer in the Wings is definitely a second tier Lorna Hill (unless all the Lorna Hill titles are less good than I've remembered??). It centres on Annette Dancy (is that a bit lazy, Lorna?) who is a member of the Cosmopolitan Ballet company, but finds herself in a precarious position when her mentor teacher dies. I always enjoy stories about intra-company politics and rivalries, but quite soon we escape this scenario when Annette takes off for Scotland, shaken by the news of her mother's unexpected second marriage, which turns Angus MacCrimmon from a vague love interest into her stepbrother -- no, wait, he's still a love interest. I guess that is okay, though I'm pretty sure my daughters would say 'ick.'

In some ways Dancer in the Wings resembles Principal Rôle, with Isle of Skye taking the place of the Slavonian Alps in providing the scenic backdrop. There's actually a shout-out to the Slavonian setting of the previous book in this novel. There is however quite a bit of actual dancing in this book, as Annette pays her passage to Skye by performing on board ship. I think Dancer in the Wings was right at the tail end of the heyday of ballet books, as the swinging sixties was about to hijack the glamour of ballet with pop and fashion. No, I see that Hill kept writing ballet books until the mid-1960s, though she did switch tack after that to The Vicarage Children series, though I would have thought that vicarage children might be on their way out by then, too!
 

Mr & Mrs Gould

Grantlee Kieza is a prolific author of Australian history and biographies. My younger daughter gave me Mr & Mrs Gould for Christmas, because she figured the combination of Australian history and birds would be a winner, and she was mostly right. It's a shame that Mr Gould himself wasn't a more attractive character, which took the shine off his story a little bit.

John and Elizabeth Gould arrived in Australia in 1838, already established as pre-eminent naturalists and producers of wildlife books; The Birds of Australia would make Gould more famous and very rich. John organised and carried out the collection of specimens, while Elizabeth, who at the time of their Australian trip was into her seventh pregnancy (at 34 -- when I was just getting started! Gulp), was responsible for the extraordinary illustrations, many of which are reproduced in this book. Kieza has done his research thoroughly, and provides all kinds of social and scientific background; it appears that it was humble John Gould who first suggested to Charles Darwin the possibility of natural evolution.

John Gould was a hard taskmaster and a relentless worker who didn't treat his subordinates very well, and he was a bit rough round the edges in a world people largely by gentlemen amateurs. However, he does seem to have been genuinely loving to his wife and grieved her deeply when she died, though Elizabeth never received her full credit for his commercial success. Mr & Mrs Gould is a readable and engaging popular history which taught me a lot about early colonial Australia and its abundant ornithological wonders. And the pictures are gorgeous.