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Author QandA Loop Tracks - Sue Orr Uncategorized

Q&A with Sue Orr

READ CLOSE: Loop Tracks is set over different time periods – and the closest to present day takes place in 2020, during the level 4 and level 3 lockdowns. There’s been a lot of writers discussing how to manage the pandemic in their fiction, can you tell us about your decision to include this in your novel and why?

SUE ORR: I really felt as though I had no choice about including the lockdowns in Loop Tracks. I was already committed to a real-time narrative for the final half of the book – I’d already decided to continue telling Charlie and Tommy’s stories against the real backdrop of last year’s abortion law reform and the General Election. That was alway the plan – to graft their stories, their journeys, on to whatever played out in New Zealand politically over that period. Of course, Covid and lockdowns weren’t on the horizon when I made those decisions. But when they came along, I simply stuck with my original plan of grafting fiction on to real life. As it turns out, Covid and the extreme lockdown landscape were a gift to me – it was exciting and energising to let real events inform and influence the course of the story. Bubbles were especially useful – who would my characters choose to be with? Who would break the rules? I loved being surprised by their behaviour during lockdown and – as for many real people – there were some seismic shifts in their personalities and their fates over that stressful period. I do understand that there may be some pushback from readers about Covid fiction. But I’ve thought a lot about the fact that when we entered lockdown last year, we all had our own personal, ongoing dramas happening. And they didn’t simply evaporate on day one of lockdown – we had to keep dealing with whatever was going on in our lives. That transition really interested me in terms of my characters’ stories. I hope the treatment of the novel’s ongoing fictional dramas assuages any reader reluctance about reading the Covid parts of Loop Tracks.

Charlie spends a lot of time reflecting on her past in Loop Tracks. Combined with the title, the book made me think about how the past, the present and the future are all interconnected, and if you change one, you change them all, and that all decisions predicate the next outcome. Do you believe in fate, or are our lives predetermined?

I think I believe in a kind of a fate/free will hybrid. What would that be called… willfate? I believe very strongly in being brave, taking opportunities when they come along. The downside of not doing so might be that a door closes on you forever. You’ll always wonder ‘what if.’ I give my kids this advice constantly and often it terrifies them, but so far it’s worked out okay. Of course, you think things through before you make these brave moves and this includes calculating the worse possible outcomes, as well as the best – not only for yourself, but for others affected by your brave decisions. That’s something Charlie didn’t do when she made her decision on the plane at Auckland Airport. She was too young to be capable of the required calculations. I think fate is somehow connected to bravery. Ultimately, Charlie is called upon to be brave – it takes her forty years to find that bravery. Brave people who make good decisions are rewarded with new opportunities. At least, that’s my impression. For Charlie, it’s the opportunity to bump the looping nature of her life off course and find personal happiness.

What is the best piece of writing advice you have ever received?

I’ve received lots! The first piece of advice I ever received was from William Brandt, my first creative writing teacher. ‘Chase your character up a tree, then throw stones at him. Or her.’ (William says he got that from someone else, but I’m happy to credit him with it.) I’ve done so much of this stone-throwing over the years, I could get a bit part in The Lottery. It has served me well. The advice that felt most relevant in completing Loop Tracks came from my writing group and it was pretty straightforward. Don’t give up. Keep pushing forwards. And that’s the advice I give my own writing students. Just. Keep. Writing. Oh – and also – never totally delete anything. I mean, you might take sections out of a work-in-progress, but keep them in a Spare Parts folder. Because when you’re embedded in a writing project, in a narrative, everything you write, you write for a reason. The reason might not be evident or clear in the moment, but 150 pages on, you will suddenly realise why that scene demanded to be written, and where it now fits. I love that about writing – the subconscious construction of pixels that finally unpixelate.

Tell us about the influences on your writing career and this book?

My writing career has largely been influenced by the years I’ve spent involved with the International Institute of Modern Letters at Victoria University of Wellington. I tried writing fiction for the first time in 2005, when I did the undergraduate short fiction course with William (Brandt). I knew I’d found my passion, even though I wasn’t good at it. I was very unsubtle. I blush even thinking about it. The Masters in Creative Writing followed in 2006 – that was the year I started to understand the power of fiction in its many forms, thanks to the brilliant Bill Manhire. And then, a decade later in 2016, I completed the institute’s PhD in creative writing. That’s when I really learned how little I knew about writing… and that awareness keeps growing. That’s why we write, I think – we keep finding out how little we know. It’s good to know there’s no horizon for learning. As for influences on Loop Tracks – I tend to try and not let myself be influenced by similar works, because I fear accidentally pinching someone else’s tricks and claiming them as my own. So I never read similar texts to the one I’m trying to write – not at the time of actual writing. However, sometimes I will try and capture a certain voice – an attitude, perhaps, for a character. For example, when I was trying to capture some of the older Charlie’s most irrational and unreasonable moments, I’d read Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout. Just to get me in the right cantankerous mood.

I like to think of novels sitting in conversation with each other. Could you tell us two or three other books you would like Loop Tracks to be in conversation with, books that would augment and inform a reader’s appreciation for your novel?

Hmm that’s a tricky one! I’d like it to be read alongside any book that looks over its shoulder to an event in the past, but the characters have agency in the present. It’s that willfate thing. I shouldn’t mention this, because it’s just going to highlight how perfect her writing is compared to mine, but I love Marilynn Robinson’s connected novels – Gilead, Home, Lila and Jack. I love how the individual stories circle round each other, building a world bigger than the sum of its parts. And I love how fate and freewill constantly rage at each other in those novels.

What are you reading right now? What is on your TBR pile?

I’m reading in preparation for the Word festival in Christchurch at the end of August – I’m in a session with Clare Moleta and Brannavan Gnanalingam, chaired by the lovely Tracy Farr. I’ve just finished Clare’s Unsheltered and my heart will take some time to recover from that profound experience. I’m half way through Brannavan’s Sprigs, and I can tell already that I’m going to feel the same way about that book. It’s all about the characters, I reckon. Like William said. Grow strong characters, deliver adversity, then chuck some more shit their way. That’s where great books begin. The Japanese have a word for the pile of books on your bedside table that will never be read – tsundoku. My tsundoku is teetering, but I keep stress-testing the physics. Most recently Patricia Lockwood’s No One Is Talking About This and the new Edward St Aubyn, Double Blind.

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Book Reviews Loop Tracks - Sue Orr

Book Review: Loop Tracks by Sue Orr

Published by Victoria University Press, NZRRP $35.00

If you Google Loop Track, the first page of results is now, understandably, about the new novel Loop Tracks from Wellington novelist, Sue Orr. The next page takes us to walking and tramping websites: Veronica Loop Track, Mangamate Loop Track, Lindemann Loop Track. A trail that loops around, neverending. If you don’t notice the exit, you might loop forever, retreading the same ground, making the same mistakes; and although on each rotation things may be slightly different, you aren’t able to move to a new direction.

A contemporary, realist novel, Loop Tracks introduces us to naive, dreamy, sixteen-year-old Charlie. She’s pregnant, in the worst year to be pregnant, 1978. The Auckland Abortion Clinic has been forced to close. Charlie won’t – can’t – give her parents the name of the boy, and they extend themselves in many ways to arrange a flight to Sydney, so Charlie can access an abortion.

The plane is delayed. It sits on the runway for hours. Hungry and nauseous, Charlie exits the plane and misses her appointment. She must go away, hide herself, and when the baby is born, she’s not given the opportunity to hold him, to even see him, before he’s taken to his adoptive parents. They name him Jim, and Charlie’s expected to return to life as though nothing has happened.

The novel then shifts to present day Charlie, living in Wellington with her grandson, Tommy, a neurodivergent teen in his first year at University. Due to her past trauma, Charlie is stuck deep within her track, a behavioural groove. Orr uses subtle imagery to demonstrate this throughout the novel, in passages like this: ‘On circular knitting needles it’s possible to lose sight of where one round ends and the next begins. It’s important to mark the spot, and I’ve done that. I’ve knitted to the little purple marker, but instead of moving to the next line of the pattern I’ve repeated the same round, over and over, over and over.’

The novel sifts between 1978 and 2020 after that, each year’s political and social landscape informing the other. The safe and comfortable routine Charlie and Tommy have cocooned themselves in begins to unravel: first, with the arrival of confident and captivating Jenna. She introduces Tommy to her musician sister and her loop track music that he finds mathematically hypnotising, but it’s her unsettling questions about Tommy’s father that starts to knock Charlie out of her groove. And then: Level 4 Lockdown.

Lockdown. Many novelists have expressed uncertainty about how to incorporate the pandemic in their novel, yet Orr seems to have sensed immediately how it would enhance her novel. In the quiet of her home, Charlie begins to reconsider her past and her present. She comes to understand her parents in a new way, and to forgive herself. It’s a time of reflection. As she revisits her past, Charlie is able to cast new meaning over the layers of old meaning. Familiar memories are revised to create original ideas. She’s forced to recast the narrative of her life. She starts smoking again, finds unexpected desire. The reawakening of Charlie through this forced departure from her safe and sheltered normal is satisfying, and even when she’s snooping through someone else’s things like a nosy child, you can’t help but like her.

Loop Tracks delves into bioethical issues like abortion, adoption, euthanasia, and the COVID-19 restrictions placed on New Zealanders during the 2020 lockdowns. Generational and subjective differences come into play as the characters discuss these issues, and how they believe they should be regulated. Orr places the characters under pressure, giving these issues weight and urgency. Loop Tracks is a confined space in which to consider the value of life, our own and others. How much agency should we have over our own lives? How many freedoms should we reasonably divest in order for another to live? Of course, this is a balancing act we have deliberated over for centuries, and in 2020 we were asked to dismantle our ideas about what our lives should be in order to help others.

Orr’s prose is both dry and playful, and some sections when Charlie is reflecting on herself as a young woman break into poetry. Charlie’s obsession with words gives the reader an opportunity to examine meaning and word choice throughout the work. Both style and rhythm infuse the novel with a brilliant sense of New Zealand, and Orr interrogates issues close to our hearts. Secrets and shame, family and lovers, Loop Tracks scoops all this and more into its orbit, creating a gripping portrait of a woman’s life, the harm she’s caused, the hurt she’s suffered; her mistakes, her glories, her oft-repeated wrongs. A family drama and a social commentary, it’s a book that will repeat over and over in your mind even after the final page has been read.

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Author QandA Greta & Valdin - Rebecca K Reilly

Q&A with Rebecca K Reilly

  • READ CLOSE: Greta & Valdin is your debut novel about family, love and friendship. We’d love to hear more from about how this novel came into being – the characters, the story, the writing process.

REBECCA K REILLY: I always have to start by thinking up a character as thoroughly and completely as I can before I can start writing. It takes me so long to do this because I really want to know everything that the character thinks and feels about things and how they move and what sort of food they like, whether they could answer a Myers-Brigg test accurately or whether they’re full of lies and self-delusion. I have to do that before I feel ready to drop a character into some kind of unprecedented situation, gently, because I care about them all a lot. I feel incredibly guilty if I make something bad happen to a character, even if they have it coming a bit. I have never been the type of person to find enjoyment in removing a Sims pool ladder.

I enjoyed making up characters and then writing them into little non-sequential, incomplete scenarios for many years. I first thought of the father character in this novel, Linsh, when I was about seventeen. He was a university student who was good at fixing computers and bad at admitting his feelings. Xabi was his flatmate and they didn’t know their two brothers were seeing each other. Then there were more and more characters, some I knew very well and some I didn’t, and some who knew each other and some who didn’t. And they would get together in raw text files and the Notes app, before I went to sleep, outside in the rain on my ten minute breaks from the call centre where I sold international train tickets, or when I would go and stand around in a toilet block no-one used at the University of Auckland instead of writing my dissertation.

Then after a series of unexpected events and personal crises, I decided to take my sort of Guatemalan worry doll bag of characters and try and make them into a proper story. And since I had no idea how to do that, and because I found myself with no commitments to anything else all of a sudden, I thought I had better apply to an MA programme. At that point I had to take out all my characters and decide which ones I could make a whole novel out of, so I chose V because he was one of my favourites, and then decided to play him against his younger sister, Greta, who I didn’t know much about at the time, but I thought I could figure it out. In Wellington, a city where I had lived for one year when I was 19, where our landlord removed all our doors and took us to the tenancy tribunal and I had never been back since.

  • Your novel is genuinely hilarious. How important is humour for you, and how do you think it should function in literary fiction?

Humour is very important to me. I just want to live my life and have a good time. Which I do as much as I can, despite the limits imposed on me by the housing crisis and the amount of money writers are making. As for how I think humour should function in literary fiction, I’m not sure. I’ve been thinking about it a lot since I first read the question, in discussion with everyone I’ve met outside their work and at New Flavour, and in a shouty voice message sent when I was exasperatedly trawling the streets looking for the pink supermoon.

I think there is a belief that for a creative work to be ‘good’, it needs to be challenging or difficult in either form or content. I mean, I know this to be true, I’ve read the blurbs of award-winning books, I’ve been to a poetry slam, I distinctly recall everyone in Year 11 English making up dead grandparents for an ‘easy excellence’. And I understand the appeal of working out difficult feelings in text, through writing or reading. But god, isn’t it nice to sometimes feel happy? I suppose this is all to do with Capitalist guilt, where eating things you like and sleeping in and watching really crack up Vine compilations are all bad things to be spending time on. I still sometimes have a thought that I should write a really awful book about a sad man who cries all the time and faces many tough and politically relevant decisions, that this will get me funding and I can pay someone else to dye my hair for me. I shouldn’t do this, it might turn out bad anyway. The book and the hair.

In saying this, I don’t believe myself to be a comedy writer. I have no idea how to write a joke, I don’t think I could write a tight five or a YouTube sketch. I just think people are funny and situations are funny, and funny things happen all the time, so if you write characters that are enough like real people humour is bound to appear somewhere. Also I don’t know what people are going to find funny, in my writing or in my real life. Recently I was crying on the street because I went to see a house and the people were great but the house had a horrendous odour, and let me tell you, my friends thought this was very funny.

  • The cutting observations and interests of your characters were wonderfully creative – they comment on people and cities and the world in quirky and deep remarks. Do you keep notes or a journal in your life to record interesting thoughts about the world to work into your fiction or do they come organically during the writing process?

No! No, I never take any notes. I didn’t even take notes when I was an undergrad. I would spend a long time choosing my new notebooks for the semester and then I would get to the exam and realise I had only written one note, which would always be something like how to pronounce Thomas Aquinas? or PKW = Personenkraftwagen. When I sit down to write a scene I basically know what should have happened by the end of it and then how I get there is a total surprise to me. A lot of what I’ve been thinking about or what the writing brings up for me comes through onto the page and then I go back and delete it if it ends up being a whole page about the discographies of Nelly and 50 Cent, etc. I have a mind full of endless observations and anecdotes. Immediately prior to writing this book I went to the Balkans by myself for three months and pretty much didn’t have anyone to talk to the whole time so all I could do was observe and take photos of signs I thought were funny and save them for later. Maybe my greatest interest is to observe things happening and then remember them later.

  • What writers, films, music, art and other culture would you say has been influential on your art and writing?

I didn’t read books for a really long time, I read endlessly as a child, then found I didn’t like the YA available in 2004 which was all about being a vampire or having a sexy eating disorder or both. I didn’t really know how to find books I would like, not knowing anyone who had an interest in books and not having the internet, so I stopped reading. Then after about twelve years I was reading all these German books for university, and thought this would be a lot easier if the books were in English. So I returned to the book life. Because of this, my writing tends to be informed by books I absorbed into my being when I was twelve and the observations and feelings I went on to experience in my life as an adult. These books include Sideways Stories from Wayside School by Louis Sachar, the Anastasia series by Lois Lowry and Emily’s Runaway Imagination by Beverly Cleary. Every time I look at these books, I think oh goddamn, this is why I’m like this.

  • I like to think of novels sitting in conversation with each other. Could you tell us two or three other books you would like Greta & Valdin to be in conversation with, books that would augment and inform a reader’s appreciation for your novel?

I’m not sure. I wrote this book because I didn’t think there were enough books about Māori characters that didn’t have anything to do with gangs or violence, and I didn’t think there were enough books where fashionable things happened in Auckland. People have told me G&V is reminiscent of The Idiot, but I can’t say for sure because I started reading it, left it at my friend’s house, and then she told me I shouldn’t read the rest because it was too much like my own life and I’d be upset.

  • Is there a playlist of music that goes alongside the novel?

This is a playlist of G&V vibes, not of the actual songs mentioned in the novel because I don’t think people generally want to listen to a playlist that contains Boney M, John Rowles, and Herbs, unless they’re at a rural sports bar in the late 1980s.

  • What are you reading right now? What is on your TBR pile?

Oh it’s horrible, it’s never ending. I’m reading six different books right now and I don’t want to talk about it. I request endless library books and eventually they show up and I have to read them so the next person can also get the email that their turn is here and they too can think, Oh god, that book I requested after I had that really strong cocktail in Queenstown, after I looked at the CookieTime mascot and thought is this what representation for people with gap teeth looks like, then decided it was time to request the latest trending books in literary fiction, all those books are now here and I must get to the library lickety-split before I’ve wasted everyone’s time. Some of the books I’ve requested at the moment are Victory Park, Detransition Baby, Fake Accounts, and Crying in H Mart.

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Book Reviews Greta & Valdin - Rebecca K Reilly Uncategorized

Book Review: Greta & Valdin by Rebecca K Reilly

Victoria University Press, RRP NZ$30.00 Contemporary Fiction

This debut novel exploring the particular nuance of modern romance and the dynamics of an eccentric and worldly family sets itself apart immediately with its animated style and biting observational humour. Greta & Valdin, by Rebecca K Reilly (Ngāti Hine, Ngāti Wai), is set in the author’s city of residence, Tāmaki Makaurau, with swift diversions to Wellington, Buenos Aires and Medellín. Reilly’s zingy and feisty prose makes Auckland seductive and intriguing, a surprisingly perfect fictional setting.

The titular Greta and Valdin are the two youngest siblings in the Vladisavljevic family. Valdin is pining for his ex-boyfriend Xabi (who is also his uncle’s husband’s brother, which oddly seems to be not much of an issue for anyone), and Greta’s in love with Holly, her fellow tutor at the university. Their family, a Māori-Russian-Catalonian blend, is detailed on a character list. This is helpful because there are two Gretas in this novel, joining the swarm of Greta characters in recent New Zealand fiction.

The chapters alternate point of view between the siblings, cleverly building on each other’s experiences. Greta’s headstrong and bursting into adulthood, sometimes more clumsily than she would like. The scenes with Greta and her friends were highlights – they felt animated and warm. Valdin, her older brother, is off-beat and meticulous. He’s left his job as a physicist at the university to host a travel television show, where his awkwardness makes for great content. Both Greta and Valdin are romantics at heart, and they share a dry sense of humour. Their attention to detail feels distinctly personal, and Reilly seems to revel in canny descriptions, indiscriminate in her skewering of other people’s habits and lifestyles. Character’s clothes are reported with lush prose, creating a precise image to bring the character to life. The urban setting and the fascinations of youth brought to mind Bret Easton Ellis’s Glamorama, with its excess and focus on relationships within a material world.

The blurb indicates this novel owes a debt to Shakespeare and it’s easy to see the similarities to his great romantic comedies. Greta & Valdin delights in comedic moments and provides narrative space for characters who don’t conform to gender binaries. There’s a sublime openness to sexuality in the novel, a glorious world in which less attention is paid to the gender of your lover and more to status of your relationship. All the characters are multi-faceted and thoughtfully developed, providing the novel ample room to explore racial issues, love, sex, and family secrets. Although Reilly’s technique of telling the stories of the older family members through conversation felt contrived at times, on the whole she neatly untangled the family spectacle through narrative choices that felt organic and intuitive. The blending of cultural influences in the extended Vladisavljevic family meant plenty of scope for leaning into and subverting tropes and stereotypes.

There are a few writers who can make you laugh out loud the way Reilly can. Her comedy can be dry, but also sharp and icy: her tone is nimble and fresh without succumbing to chatter. There aren’t, however, many writers who can draw out sexual tension in the same powerful way. In a scene partway through the book, when Valdin is talking to a lover on the telephone, I was so overwhelmed I had to put the book down to take a breath, Wow. Able to push scenes to the limit for dramatic purpose, Reilly makes modern romance exciting and compelling in a way that reminded me of Sally Rooney.

Greta & Valdin is an amusing and vivacious romantic drama led by two hilarious and engaging queer main characters, and I don’t think you could ask for much more from a novel in 2021. Slyly political, this novel will charm you and keep you begging for more. While at times the two protagonists were hard to tell apart – sometimes I had to check who was the narrator – the pacy plot and quirky family dynamic more than make up for it. Greta and Valdin are more just two parts of a whole – together they form a unique friendship. Their bond is special and touching, and the novel deftly surveys the brother-sister dynamic, and how families can support and befriend themselves. With her frenetic and vibrant prose, Reilly is a fresh and daring new voice in New Zealand fiction.

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Author QandA The Disinvent Movement - Susanna Gendall

Q&A with Susanna Gendall

READ CLOSE: The narrator in The Disinvent Movement is interested in disinventing the world, one thing at a time. This is a wonderful idea – was this the starting point for the novel or did it come to as you explored your character?

SUSANNA GENDALL: The sections on the ‘Disinvent Movement’ were the first scenes that I wrote, so yes, I definitely started out with this idea in mind. The rest of the novel sort of grew out from there. But I guess the protagonist took this idea somewhere I hadn’t initially anticipated. I’d imagined it as an environmental and anti-capitalist movement, but as I got deeper into the book, it also became about who the character is and her whole conundrum, about her as an ecosystem under threat.

In the notes at the end of the book, you mention that one section started life on The Friday Poem at The Spinoff. Did you always plan the structure of the novel to be fragments, written as lyrical poetry and stories in miniature, or did the novel shift and change as you wrote?

I really liked the idea of fragments – this was a form I’d always been drawn to, and it felt like the right format for the narrator and her story, but I wasn’t entirely sure how they’d all fit together. I decided to just do the writing, and then piece them together. I didn’t start out thinking that I was writing ‘a novel’, though. I thought I’d just see what it turned out to be once I’d finished. This was quite freeing, I think. It wasn’t until near the end that I began to realise it was turning into a novel… This felt like a little joke from the universe, as I’d basically given up on writing one. I’d made several attempts, but they’d all fizzled out. I think I had certain preconceptions about what a novel was, and needed to blank these out in order to write one. The idea of genre has always seemed kind of constricting – I think it would be nice if we didn’t have to call a book a ‘novel’ or ‘a short story collection’ or a ‘memoir’ or whatever. I have fantasies about a bookshop with no sections, just ‘books’. This probably sounds like total hell to the people that sell them, though!

Tell us about your relationship with Paris and why you wanted to include the City of Love in your novel.

I have a bit of an ambivalent relationship with Paris – love-hate, possibly? It’s where I live about half the time, and I’ve always felt slightly removed from it – part of the deal when it’s not your home town. This was an aspect that I wanted to bring into the novel – which, in a way, reflected the narrator’s relationship with herself. It’s also a city where anonymity seems part its heartbeat. You can go for weeks without running into anyone you know. I guess I felt that this was the right backdrop for my anonymous narrator.

We would love to know which artists, writers, films, musicians and books have had an impact on your career and writing.

Wow, so many! In a way, everything you read and see and interact with is quietly having an impact on what and how you write . . . but I love Ali Smith and her playful yet political angle. Rachel Cusk’s work also resonates deeply with me, particularly the Outline trilogy. The French director Michel Gondry has been a big influence as well. When I first saw his films, I remember thinking that this was someone who was really pushing cinema somewhere exciting, going beyond plot. The Science of Sleep is a film that I can watch over and over. And, actually, dance has been very inspiring. There’s some really exciting choreographers around at the moment. A few years back I saw four short ballets by Tino Sehgal, Crystal Pite, Justin Peck and William Forsythe, which really shifted my approach to narrative, I think.

I like to think of novels sitting in conversation with each other. Could you tell us two or three other books you would like The Disinvent Movement to be in conversation with, books that would augment and inform a reader’s appreciation for your novel?

I read The Years, by Annie Ernaux after I’d written The Disinvent Movement, and it immediately struck me as a book that resonated with it – something about the way it blurs the personal and political, and also perhaps the distance she manages to achieve on her own life, as if she is looking down upon it. And perhaps The Notebook by Hungarian writer Ágota Kristóf, a dark, unsettling story, which I also read as a meditation on fiction.

What are you reading right now? What is on your TBR pile?

I’m reading two books at once at the moment, which is unusual for me, but I thought I’d try a new bedtime routine. Moby Dick, which I’ve been trying to get to for years, and which is absolutely blowing me away. The language is so rich and gorgeous . . . And Ducks, Newburyport, by Lucy Ellmann – a 1000-page book written in about three sentences. It’s got a bit of a Ulysses vibe but from the angle of a middle-age woman contemplating just about everything in the universe. I’m enjoying the challenge of reading two big, fat, wonderful books at once. I’m really looking forward to catching up with some of the exciting books to come out of Aotearoa over the past year as well – Bug Week, by Airini Beautrais, The Swimmers, by Chloe Lane. I’ve also been wanting to read Weather by Jenny Offill. There’s so much that I want to read at the moment.

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Book Reviews The Disinvent Movement - Susanna Gendall

Book Review: The Disinvent Movement by Susanna Gendall

The Disinvent Movement by Susanna Gendall is a debut novel of poetic force, laced with a Parisian je ne sais quoi.

This novel isn’t heavy on plot but do not be deceived: Gendall knows how to make magic. The novel is structured into eighty-one fragments, none longer than three or four pages (most are only a few paragraphs long). This carefully crafted series of miniature stories form a web of meaning we are invited to decipher. Simple statements are twisted and turned to examine their multitudes of meaning: as the nameless narrator herself says in regards to throwaway remarks, ‘People threw away so much these days.’ Not Gendall. Even the most mundane can be transformed under her gaze. She gathers together her threads of story like precious treasure with skill and a confident dexterity.

The Disinvent Movement is captivating from the first page and doesn’t let up. Eking out details and connections, we find ourselves engaged in the story of a woman from New Zealand now living in Paris. A woman entranced by borders, boundaries, tunnels, insiders and outsiders, Amazon fires, insects, plants, death, how to find yourself, how to fit in, how to get in. Migrants and refugees and the climate emergency are all alluded to – though never with an interrogation. This novel doesn’t do that, and I’m glad it doesn’t. It would spoil the dream-like haze of this book, the hypnotic tension that hovers over the pages.

The narrator doesn’t quite know where she begins and where she ends, who or what she is. Other characters are telling her she’s like someone else: ‘It was another case of me not acting like myself.’ The Disinvent Movement captures the idea of mutability, of acting or imitating a personality, and the ever-changing essence of our beings. Who are we and can we be different? ‘Some things you just couldn’t do,’ she says early in the novel, but then again, why not? Life isn’t just one thing – it’s many things, many places. Different languages and definitions, different people. Lovers, friends, mothers: each important roles yet they could be filled by anyone. People are replaced and recast; she continues each day trying to understand the hidden mysteries of the world.

She feels out the outside, kept apart from others. But, ‘Once I was out, I wanted to get in,’ she says, and then later, once she was in, she wanted out. Out from a physically violent marriage that echoes her mother’s life. The narrator tries to leave her husband again and again. It takes at least seven attempts, she tells us, for people to leave these relationships. The difficulties in leaving abusive relationships have been well documented in research, and Gendall expresses the problems in exacting prose: ‘Each morning I knew I was closer to leaving. This was not so much about walking out the door as it was about dismantling a whole system of belief.’

Along with her marriage, our narrator begins to question all the implicit rules of society. ‘How had we all just gone along with this whole thing anyway?…Why were we trying so hard to play by the rules?’ Like Kate Chopin’s Edna and many other examples of women in fiction pushing back against the pressures of expectation, Gendall’s protagonist imagines a world where she doesn’t have to abide by the rules. What if, she imagines, things could be disinvented?

This idea leads to the creation of a small protest group – The Disinvent Movement. At their meetings they discuss what they would like to rescind from invention. Comedy ensues yet the pensive mood of the novel is maintained. Our narrator rebels in small ways, looking to remake herself, or the idea of herself. She embarks on a love affair with a man she knows only as Maurice’s friend and takes action in the night to disinvent cars. The Disinvent Movement is hilarious too, in a quiet way. Gendall digs into the dry dirt of human experience, and finds the humour hidden there.

The story fragments often end with double entendres. Gendall refuses to make it neat and tidy. The reader is forced to reinterpret what they’ve read, to reimagine every possible and plausible meaning. With echoes of Livinia Greenlaw and Jenny Offill, The Disinvent Movement is a charming novel with barely a word out of place, prying into questions of how to be, or find, ourselves – if there is such a thing.

Victoria University Press, Contemporary Fiction, NZ RRP $30.00

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Author QandA Sorrow and Bliss - Meg Mason Uncategorized

Q&A with Meg Mason

READ CLOSE: Sorrow and Bliss is Martha’s story. Tell us how you came to write the book – how you settled on the narrative voice; the structure and the importance of leaving gaps in her experience for the reader; the decisions you made and how the book changed during the writing.

MEG MASON: Sorrow and Bliss was never meant to be anything other than a Word document, or seen by anyone except me. Because I started it a month or so after quitting fiction forever, at the end of 2018, having spent all year labouring over a book that was horrible to begin with and even worse by the time I’d finished with it. So much time and emotional energy had been wasted producing 85,000 unusable words, I couldn’t imagine ever trying again.

But then. Authors are sometimes asked what ‘makes’ someone a writer, whether its innate ability or something that can be taught or the product of practise and discipline. I just think a writer is someone who can’t help themselves. No matter how hard the work is, the permanent, overhanging threat of it not turning out or ever being published or finding readers if it is, you just have to. You can’t not if you want to feel like yourself and know what you think.

So even though I truly thought my writing career was over, I was compelled back to my desk one day, wanting to put down not even a scene really, just an image that had dropped into my head, of a couple at a wedding going over to chat to a woman who was by herself and having a terrible time with a canape.

For some reason the 600 words or so that I wrote that day, which became the first scene of the book, were a bit flood-gates-y and the rest it just came roaring out. I just had to sit there and type.

The only contributing thing I can identify is my deciding that Martha was just going to say what happened. I wasn’t going to try and make every single sentence clever and novelly, and rammed with verbs and description as I had – so effortfully and disastrously – in the earlier book.

If a character sits down, Martha says ‘he sat down.’ Not ‘he collapsed onto the well-worn, velvet sofa, riven with anxiety, as a sharp wind forced its way through the peeling window frames like ice cold fingers’. If there’s anxiety and a breeze, she’d just say that too or – as to the gaps in the narrative – we just have to figure it out from other things says or doesn’t. That’s why the tone turned out the way it did, sort of flat and prosaic but more the way we really talk, and I think what makes the book a little bit different, and definitely different to anything I’ve ever written before.

Your second novel is concerned with motherhood, and whether Martha could be a good mother, ideas which have also driven your memoir Say It Again In A Nice Voice and your first novel, You Be Mother. Could you let us know a little of your thoughts concerning writing about motherhood and children and why it’s important to you?

I would say, rather than being something I set out to do, my concentration on motherhood was a product of my age and the stage of life I was in when I started writing – 32, with two little children. It’s remained one because all of life is in it – mother and child relationships and particularly, for me, mother and daughter ones. Every emotion and complication and experience is there, so I’m sure there will be a mother and daughter, of some age, in every book I ever write.

If Sorrow and Bliss were to be a film, who would you like to cast to play Martha, Patrick, Jonathan, Ingrid, et al?

Possibly you’d assume the opposite of a writer but I have no visual imagination when it comes to characters and what they look like. I can do you a lovely, detailed living room or a rainy street but the reason there’s barely any physical description in Sorrow and Bliss is because I have no idea how any of them look. Which makes it hard for me to cast them. But if the author is allowed to hover on the corner of a set, I would rewrite the entire thing just so there were parts for Sharon Horgan, Benedict Cumberbatch and Colin Firth.

Your writing has been compared to Phoebe Bridge-Waller’s Fleabag and Sally Rooney. What writers, films, artists or musicians do you think have had an impact on your writing?

I’ve been amazed by comparisons to both of those writers, and so grateful. But they’re both such millennial voices and I’m squarely Gen X so its writers of my generation, or earlier ones, who have taught me what to do and how, and impacted me most as a reader. Like Rachel Cusk, who writes in such a straight, sparing way that you’re always caught out by the depth and darkness of the material. Hilary Mantel, for the way she combines such detail with such economy. Janet Frame, for beauty and experiment. But most of all, Nancy Mitford for that incredible blending of humour and pathos and – I think – her inventing a kind of fiction that is literary but funny and accessible at the same time.

I Iike to think of novels sitting in conversation with each other. Could you tell us two or three other books you would like Sorrow and Bliss to be in conversation with, books that would augment and inform a reader’s appreciation for your novel?

Gosh, I love that idea. I remember when I read Jenny Offill’s Dept. Of Speculation when it first came out, thinking afterwards – or possibly within the first few pages – oh, here it is, the perfect novel! Desperately funny and sad and beautiful, such amazing observation and – incredibly – the whole story of a marriage told in one hundred and something pages. That and Grief is the Thing With Feathers, a sort of boy version of the same, are the two novels I would choose as companions for Sorrow and Bliss if I could.

What are you reading right now? What is on your TBR pile?

I’m not sure why, since I generally tend towards fiction, but I’ve been on a history bender since the beginning of summer and chain-read all of Simon Jenkins’ Short Histories, and Antonia Fraser’s Mary Queen of Scots, Marie Antoinette and The Six Wives of Henry Eighth. They’re such amazing works for scholarship but they read like novels so there’s no effort involved. But definitely inspiration, for me, in the fact that Fraser had her fifth child in the middle of writing Mary Queen of Scots, 640 pages long, and she didn’t give up or drop dead of exhaustion.

Next, and the second they’re released, in February and May this year, I will be reading Max Porter’s The Death of Francis Bacon and Rachel Cusk’s Second Place.

Categories
Book Reviews Sorrow and Bliss - Meg Mason

Book Review: Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason

Sorrow and Bliss is the second novel by Meg Mason, a New Zealand writer living in Sydney. On the longlist for the prestigious Jann Medlicott Acorn Award for Fiction at the 2021 Ockham New Zealand Book Awards, it’s the story of a woman called Martha: her hollow highs, her life-changing lows, her depression and suicidal ideation. It’s not as grim as it sounds – Mason’s writing is blisteringly funny, that’s also chic and modern in its execution.

The novel follows tall, blonde, and brilliant Martha through the years around 1994 to 2017, as she navigates life with an undiagnosed mental illness. She’s a classic unreliable narrator, and story moves around in time in fragmented anecdotes, jumping from her fortieth birthday party to her teenage years without skipping a beat, leaving stories unfinished at times, relying on the reader to make the connections and to understand the truth.

Throughout the story, Martha lives in Shepherd Bush with her father Fergus, a failed poet, and her mother Celia, a sculptor. The house is a chaotic nest of love and dysfunction. Martha and her sister Ingrid are close in age, and so alike they could be twins. Their relationship functions as the common twin trope in fiction – so similar and yet so different, so close and yet so disparate. They bond over their anger at their mother’s cold and callous nature, her alcoholic benders, and her sporadic attempts to kick out Fergus before taking him back again. Only there’s something very different about Martha, and it moves her away from Ingrid and everyone else.

Family is important in Sorrow and Bliss, and Martha’s painfully naive about their secrets. Most of the story revolves around Martha’s immediate and extended family: her aunt Winsome, uncle Rowland, and cousins Nicholas, Oliver, and Jessamine. Celia’s sister Winsome has married into wealth and lives in Belgravia, and we come to see the relationship between Celia and Winsome mirrors that of Ingrid and Martha. Each person in this family is in their own way self-centred, shallow, and cruel; although occasionally, they show each other the incomparable tenderness of unconditional love.

However, Martha’s challenges force her family to reassess how unconditional love works. How can you provide support in the face of unrelenting pain and illness? Would it be easier to give up on someone who can’t seem to ‘help themselves’? Many people will read this novel and see the dynamics of the Russell family mirroring their own journey with a family member who requires deep and unending support and understanding. It’s difficult and confronting, but an important story to tell.

While Sorrow and Bliss is about Martha and her journey to understand herself and her family, it’s also about the nature of love and being wanted. Martha lives in a world determined by her relationship to men: her well-meaning father, ill-fated first husband Jonathan, the semi-magical friend Peregrine, the ever-present second husband Patrick. Which men give her what she wants, and which men don’t. Who desires her, and who doesn’t. What an indictment of the way women often live! Finding a way through the patriarchy. Wondering constantly about who is admiring us. Who is loving us. Who might give us what we want. It’s a man who gives Martha what she wants: a psychiatrist, who gives her the diagnosis that makes sense of the lifetime of sadness; and it’s also a man who can’t give her what she wants – her second husband Patrick, who Martha assigns as the demon in her life because of his failure to diagnose her and to see through her lies and make her a mother. At times I ached for Martha to find a woman with whom she could find some peace, yet by the height of the drama, she’s pushed all the women who might support her away.

Patrick is but a shadow of a character in this book: Martha admits as much when she realises she doesn’t once think about his thoughts, his beliefs or his experiences. She’s awful to him, really. Everyone’s awful to him. I couldn’t understand why he continued to be associated with the family. But again, we are only hearing Martha’s interpretation of events. The unreliability of her story comes into play again and again, and it’s frustrating and real and dripping with sorrow as we see characters misinterpret one another.

Because we never hear Patrick’s side of the story, we never understand why he loves her, just that he does, and he’s willing to go through nearly anything to be with her. The love story feels both shallow and so powerful it shatters your heart into tiny pieces.

In a novel with many vivid scenes, Sorrow and Bliss sometimes missed an opportunity to give us more emotional power. A few scenes told in summary or flashback would have had a different impact if they’d been shown as present action. One example of this is when Martha mentions how an email made her so angry she repeatedly slammed the pointed end of her clothes iron into the wall, creating a triangular pattern of dents above her desk. Removing us from that scene, by virtue of mentioning it in only in a few lines during another scene, holds us at arm’s length from Martha and the truth of her lived experience. We’re only given snippets of this fascinating story, and I desired to be let inside the controlled narrative and see what was hidden.

It’s her story, but who is Martha, really? I’m not sure we know her truly, even at the end. We rely on what she’s told by other people, because Martha hides her true cravings and ambitions from the reader and her family. We’re told she’s beautiful – less so than her sister, but in a better way: ‘Father said, ”They might look at her first. But they’ll want to look at you for longer.”’ Several characters tell her she’s brilliant and clever and funny, although there’s little evidence of this in the book. Sadly, due to her illness, her potential is given no room to develop. She’s bounced around from doctor to doctor, provided with prescriptions like a medical guinea pig. What a difference it would’ve made if she’d been diagnosed earlier! Plenty of women can attest to this issue: in reality, women are diagnosed years later than men for almost all illnesses. Lucky for Martha, she has family with money – she’s never homeless, never abandoned. Her autonomy is oppressed under the dictatorship of her illness, but through it all she’s loved and wanted and safe.

Heavy on the sorrow, light on the bliss, Martha is irrational and irritating, heart-warming and relatable. Mason’s writing is fresh and stylish, creating an intimate novel that feels utterly, wonderfully contemporary. It’s bitter and funny with off-hand British humour, which makes up for the times Martha is frustrating enough to throw the book across the room.

Sorrow and Bliss is about legacy and inheritance, the genetic debts our parents pass down to us; it’s about homes and the memories that can be created and misremembered between their walls; it’s about being forgiven and forgiving, about forgetting and about holding each other close. It’s about personal crisis and the damage to those around us, it’s about parents and children and the lives we lead, as opposed to the lives we dreamed of. It’s about desire and being wanted, and about being truthful about what we want in return.

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Addressed to Greta - Fiona Sussman Author QandA Uncategorized

Q&A with Fiona Sussman

READ CLOSE: Addressed to Greta is your third novel. How do you see your craft and your focus shifting over your career, and how has it remained the same?

FIONA SUSSMAN: At first glance, no one of my novels resembles the others – frustrating for anyone bent on slotting my work into a single genre. I think this has less to do with shifting focus over my writing career, as more just deciding to write the stories that demand to be told. As I begin on a new work, it is the emotional impetus for the story, and not the prospective audience, that inevitably determines how it will out.

The commonality underpinning my writing is the subject matter. I remain fascinated by those who are forced to navigate the periphery of society because of prejudice, be that towards race, sexual orientation, mental health, physique . . . I have always been drawn to tell the underdog’s tale and remain driven to shine a light on the challenges experienced by those who don’t fall within the narrow margins of ‘the norm’ peddled by Western society.

My third novel, Addressed to Greta, has a strong thread of humour through it. This was definitely a first for me as a writer. However, stacked beneath the humour are more weighty issues. Had I consciously thought about writing a funny novel though, I suspect the humour would have felt forced and contrived. Rather, it arose organically from the protagonist, whose social gaucheness makes her unwittingly funny.

Family dynamics are always at the forefront of your work – even when family members are no longer present, they haunt the protagonists. Greta is desperate to move out from under the shadow of her mother, five years after she’s passed. What is it about families and their relationships that draw you to write about them?

The role of family in the genesis of wider social issues has always interested me and makes for a fascinating lens through which to examine personal and societal problems and successes.

The family unit is really a nursery ground for the next generation, ideally affording a safe, non-judgemental space for personal growth and development. At its best, it offers a solid base from which an individual can venture out into the world to test their evolving persona, and a safe place to which they can always return.

In a dysfunctional family, the unit becomes a place of negative energy, criticism, excessive control . . . and serves to undermine the growth and self-determination of those within it, most especially children.

In Addressed to Greta, Greta’s mother, Nora, imparts her own jaded and cynical views to her daughter – attitudes and beliefs springing from her life of disappointment. No expectation, no disappointment is just one of Nora’s many mantras. Greta learns to live by it too, her mother’s fears shaping her outlook and stifling her development. Even after Nora dies, her cautions continue to wield power over Greta.

It takes Walter, a close friend of Greta’s, to realise that for Greta to live a bigger life, she must escape the long shadow cast by her mother. Walter’s insight and empathy comes from his own experiences, having grown up in a family where he was forced to live a lie.

Greta lives in a very recognisable Auckland, driving from Devonport to her job, and over the bridge to Ponsonby. Do you think writing about the places we live is important, and why?

Often we shy away from setting stories in our own back yard. The ‘other’, the ‘foreign’, the ‘faraway’ or ‘unknown’ always seems more exciting, more exotic, more profound. But there can be real power in the familiar backdrop, lending a story greater relatability and relevance, and giving what sometimes feels like our small local life, value and import.

While fiction generally affords the comfort of a few degrees of separation from our lives, its power can be in the recognisable. In seeing aspects of our life reflected in a story. The sense that a character’s thoughts or experiences or challenges or habitat in some way reflect our own. And in this way the familiar can work to enhance the resonance of a story.

Greta’s travels are incredible – have you travelled widely?

My parents were great believers in education outside the classroom, in particular through travel and books, something they felt to be particularly pressing when we were growing up under the appalling apartheid regime. To never travel (be that physically or through reading) is to believe that the pocket of world you inhabit is the only reality. They were determined to challenge that notion. My husband and I have tried to continue this tradition with our children.

I grew up Johannesburg, South Africa, in 1989 following my-husband-to-be to New Zealand. In some ways, our emigration because of the repercussions of fascist politics, mirrored my maternal grandparents’ emigration from Italy to South Africa to escape Mussolini’s tyranny, and my husband’s parents’ escape from Nazi Germany . . .

After my husband and I completed our medical training in New Zealand, we headed to the UK for work experience, ‘en route’ backpacking around the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico.

England proved a great launching pad for exploring the rest of Europe, and we made the most of this during our three years away, returning home to New Zealand in 1997. New Zealand has been a wonderful home to us in so many ways, and we continue to explore its beauty as keen trampers.

Some years ago, my brother treated me to a week in New York – a place I’d never been before and where he had spent a lot of time.

Then, after my mum passed, we used some of her generous legacy, to take our family to Rwanda, trekking into the Ngungwe Forest National Park and the Volcanoes National Park to see the endangered gorillas and chimpanzees. It was a once-in-a lifetime experience.

I wish I had more space to expand on these standout adventures. I still get excited just thinking about them.

What writers, films, artists or musicians do you think have had an impact on your writing?

Growing up, I was hugely influenced by those brave, socially-conscious authors such as Nadine Gordimer, Alan Paton, Athol Fugard, JM Coetzee , and André Brink, who, despite the heavy censorship operating during the apartheid era, used their pens and position of privilege to document the atrocities of the regime and provoke change. Their works gave me an appreciation for the power of the written word as a tool for change, as did the lyrics of socially conscious Mexican-American singer songwriter Sixton Rodriguez.

Other authors that have impacted my writing (so hard to narrow down) include Ian Cross, Toni Morrison, Kate Grenville, Helen Garner, Alan Duff, Jesmyn Ward, and George Saunders.

If Addressed to Greta were to be made into a film, who would you cast?

Ha! I like to see new faces on the screen, as I think they give characters their own authenticity. But hey, I reckon Miranda Hart would do a great job of being Greta, and Eric Bana would make a fine Walter.

What are you reading now? What is on your To Be Read pile?

I have just finished I Wish I Wish by Zirk van den Berg. A tiny gem of book with such emotional depth. The Afrikaans version recently won the Hofmeyr Prize in South Africa.

On my bedside table is Remote Sympathy by Catherine Chidgey, Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell, Fake Baby by Amy McDaid, and Shepherds and Butchers by Chris Marnewick.

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Addressed to Greta - Fiona Sussman Book Reviews

Book Review: Addressed to Greta by Fiona Sussman

Bateman Books, NZ RRP $34.99, Contemporary Fiction

It’s a storyline straight from a romantic comedy – a socially awkward woman, living alone with her chicken and her spa pool, receives a phone call telling her that her late friend has bequeathed her an all-expenses paid holiday. Destination and length of trip: unknown. Said woman is flustered. Can she do it? Break free of the routine and structure that she’s sheltered herself with and leave New Zealand for the first time?

In the sweet and endearing novel Addressed to Greta, the eponymous main character is lonely, frightened and ashamed of her large feet. Walter, Greta’s best friend and her unrequited love, has died and left her a trip of a lifetime, ‘an opportunity to step away from the world you know.’ Greta has lived in Auckland for over twenty years and has never heard of Tiritiri Matangi; she’s never been to the South Island, so this trip is a daunting prospect. She’s sheltered in a way that seems unbelievable. She’s utterly alone, even though she’s never without her the memory of her controlling mother, recalling the things she’d said: gems like ‘Thinking positive thoughts will not pay for the power’, and the nasty ‘If only people knew what you were really like.’

Greta’s unable to cast off her mother Nora’s admonitions and criticisms, even though her mother died five years ago. Greta is scared to make herself a life that includes her dreams and ambitions, preferring the security of her quiet and unfulfilling life. But this trip, from a friend who knew her better than anyone, forces Greta to quit her boring job, to leave her rental property in Devonport, to apply for a passport and take a long haul flight to her first destination: New York City. It’s the first stop on a whirlwind tour, and we get to come along for the ride.

Addressed to Greta is the third novel by Fiona Sussman, a former GP turned fiction writer. Her second book, The Last Time We Spoke, won the Ngaio Marsh Award for Crime Fiction in 2017. This new novel is a departure for Sussman as well as Greta. Sussman ventures here into cosy and warm territory, in a story that deals with large issues in familiar and comfortable settings. This book will appeal to readers of Charity Norman, Nicky Pellegrino and Sarah-Kate Lynch.

Sussman’s writing is strong and evocative – the novel glowed whenever landscapes or cityscapes were described. With international travel off the cards this year, anyone desperate for armchair travel will find plenty to satisfy in this book. Beautiful food is eaten – Greta loves to eat, especially cake and chocolate – and interesting strangers – morticians and architects and pilots – start out as acquaintances, but become her friends. Greta’s earnestness allows her to experience the world in a way that garners the envy of some more worldly characters. She changes from a woman who blushes at magazine covers promising to tell you ‘Ten Risky Ways To Excite Your Lover’ into a woman who initiates a sexual encounter for the pure joy of the experience.

Sussman keeps the momentum up throughout the novel, even when it could have easily stagnated with plenty of flashbacks and memories alongside the present day action. I’d hoped for more pit stops on the holiday, but appreciate the novel would be twice the length if Greta travelled any longer. Sussman sidesteps technology to bask in the romance of hand-written letters and pay phones. There’s something touching about the voice of Walter speaking to Greta through the letters he has left her, and his presence feels strong despite only featuring briefly in flashbacks.

Greta’s trip is a lens through which we can all learn new things, whether they are about the impermanence of humankind, the value in opening oneself up to the world, and the essential understanding that ‘ You cannot change what has already happened…only what you choose to take with you.’

Sussman’s created an oddball in Greta Jellings, a character who suffers from verbal diarrhoea and innappropriate admissions. Greta is lovable in many ways yet incredibly blind to her own naivety; she’s upset when someone calls her Gretchen yet she tells a Rwandan man named Daniel that she thinks he has ‘a white man’s name’. She’s horrified by other traveller’s rudeness, but has no boundaries herself, particularly when questioning Daniel about the genocide; she’s angry at another woman’s prejudice against homosexuals, but she judges nearly everyone she meets about all sorts of things, finding herself shocked when they don’t fit into her stereotypical assumptions. While the characters in the book were always ready to forgive Greta her transgressions, it might be more difficult for some readers to do so.

Greta seemed older than she was supposed to be – twenty to thirty years older, a woman with outdated ideas and ettiquette. Her choice not to have a mobile phone fit with her character, however her disconnect and ignorance of the world around her seemed at times far-fetched – the only way to explain it would be to say that Greta has never used the internet, which in today’s world, doesn’t seem possible.

While the book is cut through with humour, mostly through Greta’s faux pas, the novel is at it’s heart a story about the burden of solitary life. Greta has no one – her former neighbours changed their personalities as well as their address, and she mourns the loss of their companionship; her mother has died and left her diaries full of secrets causing her more pain; and Walter, her best friend and the man who could never love her as she loved him, died from liver cancer, complicated by HIV. She’s worried about disappointing people, so she pushes them away, even when she’s hungry for touch and for real connection. On her travels, she discovers a profound truth: ‘People were meant to be with others. Even the elderly stationmaster defined himself by his significant other. There was power in the plural – the couple, the family, the team, the town. Shared decisions, shared grief, shared joys and burdens.’ And so Greta breaks down her barriers, little by little.

It’s also through travel that she learns another lesson, one that travel is especially skilled at teaching: ‘For a second time on the trip, the significance of Greta’s life zoomed to blend with a bigger backdrop. Her story was just one pixel in a vast canvas. It was oddly comforting, knowing that nothing mattered quite as much as she’d always believed it did.’ Against the pain and suffering of millions around the globe, Greta is able to put her own challenges into perspective, allowing herself some grace and dignity to change her life, to determine for herself what the next step should be.

Addressed To Greta is a charming novel that traverses the globe and the intricacies of human relationships. I hope many readers find comfort in her travels, the happiness she manages to find, and her search for the perfect pair of shoes.