Animal Books

Charlotte's Web, Black Beauty and The Hundred and One Dalmatians are the only 'animal books' that really captured my imagination as a child. By animal books I mean books told pretty much from the animals' point of view. I'm not counting pony books, where the main characters were the aspiring pony-owners, not the horses themselves; I read a ton of those!

But stories focused on the experiences of the animals left me pretty cold, on the whole. Ring of Bright Water (otters) was recommended to me, but it didn't grab me. The Incredible Journey was a favourite of  some of my friends (from memory, two dogs and a cat cross country to get home) -- to me, giant yawnfest. I did read Watership Down (rabbits) in high school, but only once, and I think I dealt with that by forgetting that they were rabbits.

This has left me at something of a disadvantage in later life, because Evie is a voracious reader, but she really prefers her books to have non-human protagonists, and I'm a bit stuck for recommendations. Her current favourites are a seemingly endless series of books about clans of cats in the wild, called the Warrior books. The appeal seems to be the tangled set of relationships, alliances and feuds that unfold between the cats. She says that sometimes sad things happen, but it's easier to deal with sad things when they're happening to cats, not people (she is very sensitive). She's been getting through Warrior books at the rate of one every couple of days -- they are 300-odd pages each -- and I'm getting worried about what she's going to do when they run out!

What she would really love would be a similar set of sagas about a pack of wolves -- but not too tragic. Any ideas?

Puppy Panic!

Only five more sleeps until we get our puppy!

It's happening a little bit sooner than we thought, actually, so now we have gone into a frenzy of puppy-equipment-buying, puppy-proofing and name-debating (currently the favourite option is Willow).

It's quite amusing to reflect that each of us has turned to our preferred source of information collection to prepare for this momentous event in our lives. Michael likes to ask for advice from his friends and work colleagues about what to expect. Evie has turned to the internet and has done lots of research, and has practically memorised the Wonder Dogs DVD we acquired a couple of years ago (as a substitute for an actual puppy, I seem to recall -- ah, well.) When in doubt, she's decided to fall back on cuddles. Alice is full of doomful predictions about what's going to happen when the puppy chews the computer cords, or runs away, or wreaks havoc in her room because we (ie me) haven't puppy-proofed sufficiently. Also, she keeps reminding us that we've promised her rabbits at some point...

Meanwhile, I am doing what I always do when I'm faced with a big change in my life: having a baby, buying a house, dealing with a learning difficulty or a toddler behavioural issue. I'm off to the library to find a fat, reassuring BOOK by an expert!

Poor little Willow won't know what's hit her.

Look What I Got!

My dear friend Judy B is clearing out her house before she and her husband move to the country, and she offered me 'a box of old children's books you might like.'

Well, the box arrived, and I do like, very much indeed! The top layer included some gorgeous old books, including school stories, some Lorna Hill titles (I have to pass these on to Judy's daughter, once I read them), the first Billabong novel from Mary Grant Bruce and LM Montgomery's Emily of New Moon, which bizarrely I've never read, despite my enduring adoration of Anne of Green Gables. 

Most of these were originally given as Sunday school prizes to the young Judy, and I'm reminded that there used to be a whole category of children's books specifically written for this purpose. My mother tells me that there used to be a special shop in the city that sold books for Sunday school prizes (as well as other ecclesiastical supplies, one presumes).

But underneath these Sunday school novels was another, unexpected layer of delights -- half a dozen annuals. See how gorgeous they look on my display shelf? Here is a close up view:

The annuals are from the 1950s and they are chock full of fabulous stories, comics, nature articles, poetry and crosswords. Aren't the cover girls great -- sporty and wholesome, and not a fashion item in sight! I wonder when annuals disappeared? I remember getting an annual one Christmas in the late 70s -- it might have been Jackie, or Princess? So they were still around then. Does anybody out there know?

One thing I noticed is that the print is extremely small. Which means you can fit in more glorious content, I suppose, but it also decreases the chances of modern kids actually reading any of these lovely old books. Shame.

Thank you, Judy. They are wonderful.

Veronica and Sebastian

On our recent trip to Tasmania, I found a couple of battered Lorna Hill ballet books in a second hand shop at Salamanca, and they were two that I'd never actually read. Of course I pounced.

Well. Sometimes it turns out that there are good reasons why books end up languishing in second hand shops. I knew from reading later novels that Veronica and Sebastian (spoiler alert) end up together. (One of the things I really like about the Wells books is the sense of the baton being passed from one ballerina to another as the series progresses. Veronica is inspired by Margot Fonteyn, and goes on to inspire Jane Foster in her turn, then Jane acts as a mentor to another young dancer, and so on.)

Sebastian initially presents as quite an attractive character -- flippant and charming, but underneath it all, clearly very serious about his music, and obviously (to the reader) smitten with Veronica. So I wasn't prepared for the massive row that Veronica and Sebastian have partway through the book, in which Sebastian behaves like a complete pig.

Veronica has just received the thrilling news that she's earned a part in one of the company's ballet productions and has to rush back to London. Unfortunately this means she'll have to miss Sebastian's concert. Sebastian is not happy.

...I burst out, 'You know quite well I've got to go back. It's my career. You'd go back if it were your career, wouldn't you, Sebastian?'
'Of course. I'm a man.'
'What difference does that make?'
'Quite a lot,' Sebastian said, turning his back on me... 'Men are forced to have careers. Women just barge into them. It's just silly for a woman to give up everything -- friends, beauty sleep, peace of mind -- even marriage -- for a stupid thing like ballet.'
'It's not stupid!' I yelled, almost crying. 'It's my life!'
'Then it ought not to be,' declared Sebastian.

To her credit, Veronica sticks to her guns, despite parting with Sebastian on very bad terms, even after he flings the revelation of his love for her in her face ('I was going to kiss you... But don't worry, I shan't do it now...'). She goes back to London where her career takes off and she becomes the latest ballet sensation. However, as the rest of the book unfolds (they don't see each other for a couple of years after this), Veronica is tormented by the memory of this terrible fight. Not because it's been revealed that Sebastian is a selfish loser, but because she's worried that he won't 'forgive' her!

In the last pages, just before Veronica's ultimate triumph, they are reconciled when he sends her a big bunch of red roses with the label 'Sebastian'.

Just that! No word of apology or good luck. I gave a wry smile. How like Sebastian!... He was brilliant, and witty, and arrogant. Above all, he was proud... Still, my heart glowed. We were friends again, and he had meant me to know it.

Oh, well, that's all right then.

Okay, I admit, this was written in 1951, but still. He didn't have to be quite such a knob about it.

There is an interesting ongoing tension through all the Lorna Hill books between the protagonists' dedication to ballet (almost religious at times) and their need for lurve. More often than not, the women themselves don't seem to realise that love and romance is something they should want! They believe they're quite fulfilled by their passion for their art, and the rigorous demands it makes upon them. They have to be forced to see what they're 'lacking' by the attentions of the men who have fallen in love with them, whereupon they wake up from their dream and realise that they're just like ordinary, non-ballerina women who just want to get married and be adored and taken care of (this is the role of men in the Lorna Hill universe). Now I like a touch of romance as much as anyone, but it's a shame that it always seems to play out the same way. However, I must admit that weirdly, in later books, Sebastian seems very supportive of Veronica's career and writes music for her -- it's a creative partnership. That's what I'd like to see more of -- not the dancers having to choose between love and work, as Jane does later on.

I might keep this one on a high shelf, I think; I wouldn't want it to fall into the wrong hands!

Cricket By Night

I love the Ashes (even when Australia is playing so badly). I especially love the Ashes when they're in England, because then I can lie in bed with the radio murmuring in my ear all night and listen to the sonorous (never excitable) BBC coverage, drifting in and out of sleep and rolling over occasionally to catch the score. Michael and I first bonded over cricket, so even though it doesn't sound like it, it's actually quite romantic for us to lie there listening to Test Match Special together in the darkness.

Like everyone else in Australia, I fell in love with Ashton Agar during his marvellous innings in the First Test. He's young and dashing and good-looking, and he played with such grace and joy. You could see it on his face that he was just loving every minute at the crease, so grateful and happy to be there that it didn't matter that he was making run after run, living out every child cricketer's dream and saving the match. He came in at no. 11! He nearly made a hundred!

And then came the Second Test, and we were hopeless again.

I'm not saying it's entirely because of Agar that I picked up Netherland, which has been patiently sitting beside my bed for quite a while. And I'm not even halfway through. But so far, I'm relishing this brooding story of a cricketing Dutchman (yes, they do play cricket in the Netherlands), living in New York in the months after 9/11, who discovers the shadowy but thriving community of cricket players in the land of baseball. Invisible to most of the population, these cricketers are West Indian and Indian and Pakistani, and on tiny, unsuitable grounds all around the city, they passionately pursue their sport, inhabiting an underground, parallel world. Apparently this novel is 'in conversation' with The Great Gatsby; another exploration of American myth through an unexpected lens.

I remember being surprised when Jo and Laurie played cricket in Little Women. It's weird and wonderful to think that the spirit of cricket is still alive in America. Even if, at the moment, it's struggling in Australia.

The High Life

We are getting an attic!

To be precise, we are converting part of our roof space into a sealed room, which will hopefully be spider- and rat-proof, unlike the current creepy, gloomy space. We are also installing a skylight to let in some sun. (I say "we" but it's actually our lovely builder Mick who's doing all the hard work.) I should point out, our attic will be nothing like as big as the one in the picture! But it's still pretty cool.

Ladder access is from Alice's bedroom, the smallest room in the house, so she's looking forward to using the new attic as a bit of a hangout. She keeps urging us to throw out more stuff, to reduce the space we need for storage and free up more room for her.

I have to say I envy her. I've always craved an attic, and I once almost rented a very grotty house purely because of one unfeasibly small bedroom under the eaves. I remember Polly and Diggory crawling from house to house in The Magician's Nephew, and Sara Crewe's magically transformed garret in A Little Princess. The Marlowe sisters scored an attic dormitory for one hectic term at Kingscote, in Antonia Forest's The Attic Term (natch, as they would say). And of course, Jo always did her best scribbling up in the attic in Little Women.

When I was about Evie's age, I used to climb up into the top cupboards of built-in wardrobes and pretend I was in an attic. There was something so unspeakable romantic about the idea of that space, sandwiched between the safety of the house and the freedom of the wide sky, something secret but sheltered. It's one of those in-between hidey-holes that encourage reading and dreaming and musing, a perfect nest for creativity.

But I think you need to be twelve to really make the most of it.

Holiday At The End Of The Universe

Very lazy winter holidays happening at our house (though I'm determined to get out of the house today!)

We've had a couple of lovely idle days where we've all lounged around while I've read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy to the girls (a good choice) and they've played on the computer -- mostly Minecraft, which is an oddly appropriate accompaniment to a story involving the building and destruction of planets.

Now we've started The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, which I can't remember at all. Fair enough, I reckon, because it would be a good thirty years since I last read it.

The only annoying thing is that the edition we have (ex-library) is a compendium of all four books in the series, and it is absolutely riddled with typos! Which is very off-putting to the reader-aloud. Poor form.

Working Spaces

One of the most appealing features of this house when we bought it was the detached (but fully wired up) bungalow in the backyard, which the previous owners had used as an artist's studio. Low ceilinged, but with three windows, it was cosy but full of light, and I instantly claimed it as my study. We painted and carpeted the room and hung up some pictures. It was big enough to double as a spare bedroom, with a double bed, and also fit in several bookcases.

I wrote a handful of books in this room. It had drawbacks; I had to trek across to the house to make a cuppa or go to the loo, or check my emails, and it was very stuffy in summer. Also spiders loved it -- big spiders. But the room's great attraction was its separateness from the main house; even though it was only a few steps away, the psychological distance was significant. I would shut that door, and I was At Work. Not to be disturbed.

Then a few things happened. My younger daughter started school, and we built an extra living space onto the back of the house. This brought the bungalow much closer to the house (well, it brought the back door much closer to the bungalow), reducing the sense of separation. While the builders were working, I retreated to the front of the house with all the intervening doors closed to escape the noise and disruption. I started working on my bed in the front room, with my laptop on my lap. I quite enjoyed this position, in fact this is where I'm sitting right now. The front bedroom faces north and the winter sun streams gloriously through the window, and the view of the wattles in the front garden is uplifting. Also, working in bed (or on bed) feels so decadent, so Nancy Mitford.

When the back room was finished, I took my laptop to the brand new window seat and started working there. I loved the triangular cushion that propped my back at what Stephen Fry assures me is the ideal 45 degree angle. I loved staring out at the trees and the greenery, and the little birds darting down to the birdbath. I wrote most of New Guinea Moon on the window seat.

I had the whole house to myself during the school day, so there was no need to run away to the bungalow to find peace and privacy. The whole house was my workplace! But on the other hand, I missed having a dedicated space where I could dump reference books or papers and be sure that no one would move them. Also, on some days, the living room was so messy that I'd have to spend a precious hour tidying up before I could relax and start working.

So now that the novelty of the window seat has worn off, I'm finding myself craving the luxury of a separate study again. There are a couple of problems: my old table has been co-opted as the kitchen table, and I dislike the heavy, cramped desk that is currently sitting out in the bungalow. I can't wriggle my legs around under that desk, it oppresses me. But it seems wicked to buy a new one. The furniture has been rearranged so that the view from the desk is now gazing back at the house -- boring weatherboards, no glimpse of garden. We'd have to shift everything around again. And a lot more junk has found its way out there in the intervening years -- boxes and a weight bench and an uncomfortable couch. It feels crowded out there now.

But I think I want it back.

The Sound of My Own Voice

So it seems that my days of reading aloud might be almost over.

Since Alice was born, nearly twelve years ago, I have read to my children. Reading aloud was especially important to Alice because for a long time, her dyslexia denied her the books that she most wanted to consume -- books like Agatha Christie, Harry Potter, Little Women, PG Wodehouse. Audiobooks at bed-time have always been a part of our family ritual too, but the cry of 'Read to me, Mummy!' or more simply, 'Read-y!' would ring through our house several times a day. I must have spent hundreds, if not thousands of hours, reading aloud.

But now Alice's reading has improved to the point where she can read Harry Potter on her own and research websites about pet rabbits for hours on end. She still needs audiobooks, but she doesn't ask me to read to her any more. Evie has been an independent reader since she taught herself to read in kindergarten; now she ploughs intently through multi-volume sagas about clans of warrior cats in a forest, or tribes of lost dragons, and taps out her own versions on the laptop at top speed.

For a while, the girls liked me to read to them while they were in the bath. I must admit I resisted this, because, frankly, it's bloody cold and uncomfortable in our bathroom, unless you're the one sitting in waist-deep hot water. So gradually I stopped; and now they're too modest to want me in there anyway; and now the habit's broken, and it just doesn't seem to happen any more.

Perhaps the last hurrah of reading aloud was our last family holiday in WA, where I read several volumes of Ivy and Bean to both girls, in quiet moments between excursions. The other book that both girls loved and begged for was 101 Dalmatians, which I must have read to them four or five times.

Maybe reading aloud will be a holiday thing now. Maybe when the next holidays come up, I might pull out The Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and give that a whirl. Maybe I could even get Michael to listen in to that one.

Back to the Well

It's weird re-reading books that you wrote yourself. Of course when you're actually working on them, you read and read again: combing through the words, rearranging plot strands, smoothing out an awkward sentence here, embroidering a metaphor there. You know the paragraphs almost by heart, you've typed and re-typed them so often. You scan the manuscript anxiously, trying to hold the wide view in your mind; you peer closely at each line when it's time to proof-read, pouncing on each word that's slipped out of place.

And then it's gone. Out of your hands. Off to the printer, and out into the world and the (hopefully) eager hands of its readers. And after that, to be brutally honest, you never look at it again. By then you're already immersed in the next project; there's no reason to look back.

I wrote the first draft of The Singer of All Songs in 1999, in an Art Deco flat in Prahran. I'd just moved in with Michael; it was before babies, before we bought a house together. It feels like a lifetime ago. By the time it was published, we were living in Thornbury and there were three of us.

I've heard snatches of the Chanters stories in the years since then, because Alice and Evie have listened to the audiobooks many times. It's always been a disconcerting experience, to hear my own words rolling out through the car stereo, in the voice of the actress reading them. One phrase became a family joke, always rendered in a heavy American accent: Come on, you miserable worms! Wriggle out and get your dinner! But apart from that, I've never gone back and actually read the whole trilogy.

It's been a very odd experience. It's so long since I worked on these books, I couldn't quite remember what happened. I'd forgotten that one climactic twist that I'd planned had disappeared in the re-write, so the actual finale came as a true surprise. I got a lump in my throat when sad things happened. I found myself barracking for Calwyn and Darrow to get over their angst and snog already! I read descriptions of Tremaris as if I'd never read them before. I made myself laugh at dialogue I'd forgotten writing. And it was kind of cool.

And I remembered how much I loved living in this world of magic and adventure and romance. I think I want to go back there. It feels as if I've never been away.

Book Buyers Anonymous

My financial advisor (aka my husband) asked me the other day, 'How much do you think you've spent on books this year?'*

'Um, dunno.' I offered the hugest sum I could imagine. '$300?'

'$1,100.'

'What? Er, that is quite a lot, isn't it.'

It's funny how quickly it adds up. A bagful of second hand books from the library book sale here; a handful from Brown and Bunting there. A visit to a literature festival and you pick up a few books by the writers you've just made friends with, because, well, now you're interested. (My publisher once said to me, it's almost a self-sustaining industry... almost!) Bought a Kindle a few months ago and it's just so easy to idly look up a book, so easy to idly click BUY. Drop into that funny remainders shop in Tooradin on our way to visit friends in the country, and buy a book each -- it's a ritual! Birthdays and Christmas require presents, and what better gift than a lovely new book? Attend a book launch, and it's only polite to buy a copy of the book. Check out that rare title on Book Depository; never seen it for a lower price, better grab it now! Got a book group meeting coming up, must get hold of that one we're reading.

And before you know it, the Books column of the expenditure spreadsheet is into four figures, and you have a Serious Habit.

As vices go, I guess it's better than smoking.


* That's this financial year; in his world, the year runs from 1st July to 30th June.

Being A Writer When You're Not Actually Writing

So this week I was on the Sunshine Coast, at the Voices on the Coast Literature Festival. This was the view from my window in the morning:

Over three days I got to hang out with some lovely authors I'd met before, and made friends with some I didn't know. I gave six talks to groups of sweet and responsive kids, several of whom bought my books afterwards and got me to sign them, and some of whom told me that they had already read one (or more) and really loved it (or them). I arrived home last night exhausted but very happy.

The weird thing is that I have done quite a few of these events now, and every time, before I leave, I get so nervous that I throw up.

It's not the public speaking. I love talking about my books! That's fun.
It's not the socializing (though I am shy and I do get anxious before meeting new people).

I thought about this really hard and I realised what I'm most nervous about before these trips is the actual travelling. What if I can't check in; will I be able to find the bus at the other end; what if I don't know when to get off? It's the same if I'm driving myself to a gig. I fret about whether I'll get lost; will I make it there on time; will I find a parking spot, and if I do, will I be able to get into it?

What this fear boils down to, is that I will get into trouble somehow and have to Ask A Stranger For Assistance. This idea sends shivers of dread down my spine. I know it doesn't make sense, but there you go.

On a related but slightly different topic, it so happens that while I was away, I was reading a book about introverts (drained by spending time with people) and extroverts (energised by spending time with people): Susan Cain's Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Won't Stop Talking. I suspect that most, but not all, authors are introverts. So at the end of a day spent talking about ourselves or giving workshops, chatting to people we don't know well or have only just met, and mingling with festival organisers and sponsors, it's no wonder that we all stagger off the bus and collapse in a catatonic heap, unable to speak or move. It's a lovely experience, but, boy, it is fatiguing.

When One Book Leads To Another

Lucy Lethbridge's Servants was every bit as fascinating and readable as I'd hoped, packed with insight and intriguing historical titbits. I'd always vaguely assumed that the advent of labour-saving technology (vacuum cleaners, washing machines) had made servants redundant, but no, it was the other way round. It wasn't until after the Second World War, when the experience of working independently made most working-class women rebel against the notion of being 'in service' with all its petty humiliations, that the shortage of domestic labour made desperate middle class women turn to the machines.

It was intriguing to discover that as early as the 1890s, there were mutterings about the 'servant problem.' Why were poor girls so reluctant to go into domestic service, where they'd be housed and fed, often in much better conditions than if they stayed at home or in a scungy rented room and worked in a factory? This baffling conundrum led to several undercover reports, with middle class female journalists posing as servants to find out what life was really like below stairs. They seemed astonished to discover how demanding was the sheer physical labour required, not to mention the long hours, the lack of privacy, and the countless reminders of your own supposed inferiority. One maid reported that her employers seemed nonplussed and oddly unsettled at the idea of her reading serious books, rather than trashy romances or lowbrow magazines.

One of the sources for Servants was Monica Dickens' One Pair of Hands (1939), which I looked up on the Kindle and was delighted to be able to purchase instantly. I vaguely remembered reading Dickens' One Pair of Feet at high school, which dealt with her time in nursing, but I'd never read the first volume. It's a hoot. Monica Dickens (grand-daughter of Charles) was an unconventional school girl and was expelled (apparently) for throwing her uniform off a bridge. Instead of following the normal upper-class career path of debutant, wedding, unhappy housewife, she decided to work as a cook-general, thereby "giving many of her employers the rather uncomfortable experience of employing someone who was further up the social scale than they were" as her biography puts it. One Pair of Hands is her account of her experiences, good and bad.

Of course, it's a very different experience working in service when you don't really have to, and Dickens several times simply runs away from situations that have become awkward or unpleasant, but her memoir is so lively and funny, and Dickens herself seems so irrepressible, that you can't help wishing that you were friends with her. She is cheerfully self-deprecating about her disasters and inadequacies as a cook and cleaner, and unashamedly fascinated by the personal lives of her employers, never letting on that when they speak French or German to keep secrets from her, she can speak far more fluently than they can...

I'm enjoying One Pair of Hands so much I might have to revisit One Pair of Feet as well, and I don't think I've ever read My Turn To Make The Tea, which is Monica Does Journalism... Oh, dear, this is where instant gratification can lead you...

Abandoned Book

This week I did something that I only do very rarely -- I gave up on a book.

I'd asked Alice to choose which book from the tottering pile beside my bed I should read next, and she chose the volume at the very bottom of the pile, which already tells you I wasn't exactly ganting to read it. This was a book by a very well known and prolific American author (who is also a favourite of a good friend, though I haven't actually read any of her books before).

Perhaps the way I acquired it had an influence as well. I picked it up at the library book sale as part of a friendly exchange with a stranger. This woman had picked up a Carol Shields book and exclaimed over it, and I pointed out another Carol Shields she hadn't noticed and said how much I loved her books. So then she recommended The Abandoned Book to me, and I didn't feel as if I had any choice but to take it home with me, even though it didn't instantly appeal.

And sure enough, about eighty pages in, I was struggling badly. I can't put my finger on what exactly wasn't working for me. The writing was fine, but I just wasn't interested. And it was really long, too. Perhaps if I hadn't had another fifteen books on my pile, all of which I was more keen to read than this one, I might have persisted.

Oh, well. It was worth a mis-spent dollar to have a friendly chat with a stranger over rows of pre-owned books; a reminder that book-lovers are everywhere.

For those who are interested...

(this means you, Mum and Dad)

There are a couple of really nice reviews of New Guinea Moon at Readplus and What's Rebecca Reading?.