I recommended to a friend on Twitter that she listen to the audiobook, Brat by Andrew McCarthy – it’s his memoir about the eighties (read by him).
And then this happened:
I squealed.
My kids came running. I told them that Andrew McCarthy had tweeted me. Before they could say anything (‘Who?’), I said Pretty-in-Pink-St-Elmo’s-Fire-Andrew-McCarthy.
It is possibly the highlight of my 11 years on Twitter. Continue reading
I’m benefiting from an influx of new audios at my library (finally). Continue reading
A mixed bag on the audios lately. Continue reading
There’s a book called Red Flags in Psychotherapy. It’s often used as a text for ethics units in counselling.
Instead of calling Christie Tate’s memoir, Group, let’s call it Red Flags in Psychotherapy Part Two. Continue reading
Fairly sure he’s taking the piss. But I loved it. Continue reading
I take my foot off the blogging pedal for a moment, and suddenly I’m a squillion reviews behind. Expect some (very) short reviews so that I can catch up. Continue reading
I’m cramming in as many books by Australian women writers before the Stella longlist announcement as I can, and have taken advantage of my library’s audio selection. Continue reading
Is there a sub-genre of dystopian fiction called ‘it-could-happen-within-a-decade-dsytopian-and-that’s-why-it’s-terrifying’? If so, it’s my favourite sub-genre. And we can file The Mother Fault by Kate Mildenhall there.
Without revealing too much of the story, it’s about a woman named Mim, whose husband Ben is missing. Everyone wants to find Ben, particularly The Department (the all-seeing government body who has fitted the entire population with a universal tracking chip in the palm of their hand to keep them ‘safe’). When Ben can’t be tracked, Mim is questioned; made to surrender her passport and those of their children, Essie and Sam; and is threatened with being taken into ‘care’ at the notorious BestLife (which is essentially a branded detention centre). Mim goes on a risky quest to find Ben. Continue reading
Afraid I need to retract what I said very recently about being okay with Sofie Laguna telling the same story over and over.
Laguna’s latest novel, Infinite Splendours, sticks to her formula of following the life of a traumatised child. In this case, it is a boy named Lawrence who is groomed and raped by his uncle. The story jumps forward decades, and we revisit Lawrence at different points in his life – at each he is disconnected, struggling to form relationships, and severely damaged. Continue reading
I battle with reviewing short story collections – there’s usually a standout or two and the rest are simply okay. Rarely does a whole collection shine or fail.
So, what comes to mind when reflecting on Emma Cline’s collection, Daddy? It lacked. It lacked substance, resolution, and guts. Continue reading