Heat and Light


You may have noticed that maintaining this blog is a thing which sometimes I rock at, and sometimes I fail at. It should come as no surprise that I find it difficult to carve out time to reflect and to write – even to read, really – while traipsing around Europe.

Heat and Light was the second book I read for ANZ LitLovers’ Indigenous Literature Week, two weeks ago now (!). I managed somehow to cram it into a singe weekend, in between saying goodbye to England and hello to Holland, sitting on my great-aunts’ couch on a cloudy day, reading about sparkling sunshine and a possible future and people having to live with terrible truths.

Heat and Light is separated into three parts: Heat introduces a family, one by one, sharing their experiences and the way they fit into the world. I was struck by my own colourblindness: I could not forget that these characters were indigenous, and it occurred to me that if these characters’ identities hadn’t been as clearly defined as they were, I would have assumed they were white, and slipped into the stories without so much as a peep. As it was, I struggled to connect my comfortable, solidly-middle-class white-girl world with the world that van Neerven’s characters had to live in; to connect with the fact that these experiences were occurring, are occurring, just outside my periphery.

Water shows a possible future; one where a Prime Minister has been elected whose platform is the plight of the Indigenous population, but who herself is so removed from the problem that building an island to ship them off to seems like the perfect solution. Also in this future are strange, humanoid creatures springing from the islands that ring the Top End, with faces and voices and who are literally connected to the ground that they spring from. Van Neerven explores the mutability of sexuality when her protagonist falls in love with one of these creatures; Larapinta is delicate and feminine, but they are not female, do not have gender the way humans perceive it. Yet the protagonist falls in love with them, is attracted to them, anyway. I want to be flippant and say something about van Neerven taking pansexuality to a whole new level, but this love story is too tender to be treated so.

Light is the last section of the book; where perhaps Heat showed where its characters were coming from, Light shows where they are going; where they have the potential to go. Each story in Light is a moment hanging suspended in time; from here, the characters each have choices to make, futures which could be opening for them if they only turned in that direction. At the risk of sounding flowery, each moment in Light was like a pearl on a string, glinting in the sunlight, full of endless potential.

That’s the thing I love about short stories. Each of them is more than its parts, making you aware of the before and after, the unwritten, in a much more visceral way than anything longer ever does. Heat and Light is a beautiful book, and I’d easily recommend it is foy love short stories, Australian fiction, or simply a good read.




The point of reading widely – of reading at all, really, but especially of reading widely – is to engage in as many experiences different to your own as possible. It’s why I joined the Queer Book Club this week, why I continue to read books from as many different countries and time periods as possible. But I never really properly appreciated the true value of wide reading until I participated in ANZ LitLovers’ 2015 Indigenous Literature Week.

I elected to read Tony Birch’s Blood, a novel I’d had on my bookcase since about 2012; and Ellen van Neerven’s Heat and Light, a collection of short stories that I hadn’t managed to get to for July’s Queer Book Club. I’m only a little way into Heat and Light, but I’m going to call it now and say that both of these books were wonderful, and so challenging in ways I’d never anticipated.

Blood is about Jesse and Rachel, and their life on and off the road with their mum Gwen, who can’t seem to keep a boyfriend or a job, but who for all her terrible decision-making skills loves her kids too much to be away from them. It’s about Jesse trying to find his place in a world where he’s only ever a visitor, and toying with the terrible choice between being free of his mum and leaving his little sister behind.

The book opens with Jesse in police custody, his custody officer trying to convince him to tell her what has happened. What follows is an account of his life, the decisions he’d made and the decisions Gwen has made that led their little misfit family to the point where the book begins. When I finished the book I actually had to go back and re-read the prologue a few times, just to be sure that I understood the way the books event’s progressed chronologically, because what actually happened was nothing like what I imagined had happened.

Jesse’s voice is brilliant, clear and eloquent but not overly sophisticated for the twelve-year-old he’s supposed to be. He describes places and situations in a way that rings true, and having driven around Australia a bit I had no trouble picturing the roadsides and landscapes they passed through. Jesse is also just rude enough to his sister and to Gwen that you never feel like he’s unreliable as a narrator – but I had the idea that if the book were to continue, the lies might just start to pour out.

I’m not sure whether it was because it’s a road trip novel, and that’s pretty much the way I’ve experienced Australia myself, but I really related to Blood on a level that surprised me. I could see the drying paddocks and small sleepy towns as they rolled past Gwen’s little car, imagine the sort of dilapidated houses the little family would stay in as the sorts of houses you see alone on the outskirts of a town. On some levels Blood talked about the Australia that I know, the one that I’ve experienced myself.

On the other hand, there are parts of Jesse’s experience that I couldn’t even begin to fathom. After all, the driving he did with Gwen and Rachel wasn’t a holiday, it was their whole life. Every time he was introduced to an adult that he came to trust, Gwen sent them away, looking for greener pastures. His father, a character who we never actually meet (for reasons that become apparent as Gwen moves from boyfriend to boyfriend without ever looking back), was an Aborigine, a fact which is only brought up a couple of times but which clearly affects the relationships he’s able to build with the people he meets.

Because it’s only mentioned once or twice, Jesse’s heritage is a subtle thing, but it made me uncomfortably aware of the ways in which I view society – the way I automatically cast every character I meet as white, usually with dark hair, and with emphasis on each event and action which demonstrates their intelligence – in other words, a reflection of the way I see myself. I was struck recently by a post I saw on the internet which stated that there is no truly open casting for film roles – if a character’s heritage isn’t explicitly stated, it’s assumed to be white, and so casting is only opened to white characters. It’s assumed that for a character to be something other than white – Aboriginal, Indian, Native American, Ethiopian – there needs to be a reason, something central to the story. The default character is white, and as much as I was disgusted by that idea when I read that post, that’s also how I read characters myself.

And that’s why I try to participate in things like ANZ LitLover’s Indigenous Literature Week – these events challenge the way we read, encouraging us to read better, more openly, with more consciousness of the way we see the world and all the characters in it.

Paris in the summertime


Paula Maclaine’s The Paris Wife is a fictional memoir of Ernest Hemingway’s first wife Hadley Richardson. Truth be told, I didn’t so much read it as inhale it. I mean, 1920s Paris? Take me there, please.

The Paris Wife tells the story of Ernest Hemingway and Hadley Richardson’s romance, from their chance meeting at a friend’s house in Chicago through their whirlwind lettered romance and wedding to their five years living in Paris as man – no, artist – and wife. I was sucked in by MacLaine’s description of brass bands and hot Paris nights and loose 1920s fashions and cobblestones and Hemingway’s marriage to his craft. There was nothing overdone or tryhard about the prose; it was simple, elegant, exactly what it was trying to be: a modern interpretation of a 1920s voice.

The Paris Wife is told in the first person, which I’m not usually into, but Hadley Richardson was such a joy to be with that it was hardly 10 pages before I was completely sucked in. She wasn’t whiny or arrogant, as many first-person protagonists are wont to be. She was deeply in love, ready to sacrifice anything for Ernest and his work, but at the same time quietly resentful of  the time she spent alone. I ached when the marriage started falling apart, and raged on her behalf at the audacity of Ernest’s mistress and Hadley’s best friend. Hadley’s was a voice that I responded to.

I got a little thrill each time I came across a name I recognised – Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound, Max Perkins, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. They were all friends, all part of the same social circle. They read each other’s work and encouraged each other and drank ridiculous amounts of alcohol together. There was a fantastic scene where Hadley and Ernest met F Scott Fitzgerald. Ernest admits he’s never read any of Scott’s work, and Scott says that he’s just released a new book, The Great Gatsby (the fangirl in me shrieked a bit, I’ll admit). They chat a bit and then Scott moves on to talk to someone else, and Hadley wonders if she’ll ever get the courage to tell him that she’s read The Beautiful and Damned. It’s just perfect, the mixture of shyness and openness. I think Hadley might become one of my favourite protagonists, or at least one of my favourite summer reads.

And really, how great is that cover? Hadley in a fabulous magenta dress and dark fur coat, espresso at her elbow, scribbling furiously in a little Moleskine notebook. Journalling or dreaming or creating. The kind of cover that sucks you right in.

Habit (a drabble)

In the end, it was habit that saved her.

It was habit that got her out of bed when her alarm went off in the cold dark hours of the morning. Habit that had her showering on autopilot, coffee, cereal, cycling to work. It was habit that had her smiling, “Good morning!”, sitting at her desk and logging on like everything was as it had been before. Habit that shook her out of the haze of grief that surrounded her every couple of hours, to answer the phone or shoot off an email or write a few words, a sentence, a paragraph. In the end, it was habit that kept her coming to work when she could have curled up in her bed for hours and not even cared.

In the end, it was habit that saved her from her grief, because when she heard herself laughing with friends and took in her surroundings and realised that this time, the laughter was real, it was habit that had made her come to her friend’s birthday party.

In the end, it was habit that saved her.