The weirdness of Life (A mid-year update)

Here's a pause in my usual book review content to bring a mid-year update. Although the first half of 2025 seems to have sped past on wings, it has been eventful in a few ways. Above you'll see an AI generated image of a Mother's Day photo with my three kids that looks very true to life. From left to right is Logan, myself, Blake, and Emma. Now for what's been happening.   

My Decision to Quit Masters

Having done very well in my Graduate Diploma, I was quite gung-ho at the start. I expected it to be another cool goal to tick off and add to the inventory of things I've done, that I never expected to. And I was convinced that my idea deserved it. Fan fiction is an unmined treasure trove and my recently finished 92000 word effort had broken a decade-long drought of writing no fiction. The restoration of my mojo made 2024 phenomenal for me. 

But the academic pressure instantly got ahold of me. I have plenty of cool insights about the awesomeness of fanfic zipping around in my head like the flying keys in Harry Potter. Yet I couldn't fool myself that I had a chance of catching hold of them all in the time frame required to create any sort of cohesive exegesis. To make the attempt would be to fall short of my vision and not do them justice. 

Secondly, I sensed that my story wouldn't bear the weight of what I was hoping to load it with. The academic expectations would be far too heavy, like trying to wrap a courtly robe around the shoulders of a lovely paper doll. My addition to the Little Women universe is pure fun. It is popular fiction, padding out tantalizing, 'What ifs'.  I was just daydreaming, getting carried away on the waves of possibilities, filling in gaps left by Louisa May Alcott. To turn it into a major project for a Master of Creative Writing would require the sort of serious thinking I was so happy to shake off during its conception. This isn't literary fiction, folk. Whatever I came up with would've felt like wearing somebody else's coat. 

The upshot was, I froze. Then time became an issue. With all of the above playing on my mind, I made a quick decision to withdraw from the course before the census date to avoid adding the fee to my already hefty student debt. There were three days left, so I went with my heart. I couldn't help feeling like a ding-a-ling, and that I'd let people down and lost face. It was an unfortunate way to begin 2025. I think I've learned something about myself but at quite a cost. (My kids actually called me a duffer to my face.)

The new development the same day

I popped into the Goodwood secondhand bookshop on the heels of making that shamefaced decision, to cheer myself up. I went straight to the adolescent fiction section. Vintage YA novels are pretty reliable pick-me-ups. There I took a chance on The Saturdays, by Elizabeth Enright, which I started reading on the train on the way home. That way I could distract myself from the sadness I'd just generated. 

To my surprise, the characters really took off in my head. I bought the rest of this series on kindle, and discovered a few comments here and there that its fanbase would really love to know what becomes of these siblings when they grow up. Some people even stated outright that this series deserves some quality fan fiction.  

So that's sparked off another of my passion projects. Now, along with my Alcott stuff, I've started writing fanfic about the Melendy quartet, a bunch of young brothers and sisters whose existence I wasn't even aware of when this year commenced! It's going to be pretty low profile, because all these comments were written in blog posts and reviews from many years ago. I doubt they're on many people's radars anymore. But there will be well threshed out stories available for the rare soul who discovers them in future and wonders whatever happened as they move into adulthood.  

I've found this is so much the way life is. One impressive looking door might close (even if you slam it shut yourself) and then a more modest, but very appealing crack might slip open, which you weren't even looking for.  

My volunteer work with Meals on Wheels

Here is another new facet of my life. I've joined this great organization as a volunteer. Twice a week, since January, I've been delivering lunches to folk in the community. I'd estimate that I've knocked on more doors in the last five months than I'd done for the previous ten years. And I'm enjoying it too. Something about hopping into a car laden with three course meals, seeing more of the local district (some behind closed doors), exchanging greetings and smiles with householders, and patting dogs and cats, makes these days good ones. I've been into both palatial seaside homes, and tiny holes in walls. Now that winter is setting in, I can also state that I've delivered in heatwaves and rainstorms.

I'm making the experiment to quit bookstagram, at for the time being, and then reassess my presence on that platform at the end of the year. You can read more about it here. 

Okay, back with my normal agenda next week in July. If you follow along with this blog, I hope you're well and flourishing.     

'Pennies for Hitler' by Jackie French

I'm including this book for the migration category of my 2025 Aussie Book Challenge. What a desperate and reactive migration story it turns out to be. I discovered this one in a local Little Free Book Library, long after I'd set my categories for this year's challenge. I'm loving and appreciating the serendipitous nature in which perfect books tend to gravitate into my hands. 

MY THOUGHTS:

The story begins in 1939 when young Georg's happy, sheltered life is abruptly shattered. Right before his eyes, his poetry-loving, academic father is killed at a graduation ceremony that becomes a frenzied riot. That same night, the ten-year-old is smuggled out of Germany in a suitcase to avoid being murdered for supposedly being the spawn of a Jewish menace, an accusation that takes him entirely by surprise.

Georg takes refuge for a while in London, but when bombs begin raining on the city, his Aunt Miriam sends him on an evacuation ship to Australia, where he's assigned to live with the Peaslake family of Bellagong, whose son, Alan, is fighting in the army. Australia, which Georg first regards as a 'strange, untidy country where every color looks slightly wrong' becomes his refuge and oasis. It contains total strangers who he grows to love with all his heart. 

What a terrific novel, cramming such a lot of introspection into the four or so years it spans. This traumatised kid surely needs counselling, but living in survival mode makes mental health care a luxury. Georg, now known to everyone as George, must be his own counsellor. 

First he deals with some pretty major cognitive dissonance. All the propaganda he'd ever taken on board at school had been the cruelest lie all along. Nothing quite like having to be sneaked across your country's border in carry luggage to destroy your illusions about your country's leader. Georg must adjust to a whole new culture and master a foreign language to save himself, right on the heels of the most traumatic blow of his life. Then in Australia, imposter syndrome is added to the mix. He has no way of knowing how his new caregivers might feel about unwittingly sheltering a German boy beneath their roof, so makes his own quiet conclusions. 

When circumstances take him off guard yet again, and he's about 14 at this stage, he finds out for sure. 

This book's finer details about living in the WW2 era adds great colour and authenticity to the story. (In Georg's London life, treasured paintings and exhibits were evacuated from museums, and an edict was given for household pets to be euthanized, as part of the war effort. In his rural Aussie life when the threat of Japanese invaders loomed, road signs and station names vanished so the enemy couldn't possibly figure out exactly where they were.) I appreciated the depth of research on Jackie French's part. 

Such a great tale, taking the concept of an unsung hero to a whole new level, for Georg's extreme heroism must be a complete secret for his continued survival. Or so he thinks. It passed my 'tears test' with flying colours, and deserves full marks. 

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟  

'After the Funeral' by Agatha Christie

I notice I haven't reviewed an Agatha Christie novel for a little while. Here is a good one to break the drought.  

MY THOUGHTS:

The scene is Enderby, a run-down Victorian manor house. 

Elderly Richard Abernethie has just died. He'd brought up his younger siblings and outlived all but two. In addition, there is now a bachelor nephew, George, and two nieces, Susan and Rosamund, along with their husbands. When the extended family returns after the funeral for afternoon tea, flaky Aunt Cora puts her foot in her mouth. She says, 'He was murdered, wasn't he? I thought from what he said...' 

Cora has a long history of social faux pas, but now she's done it once too often. The following day, she's discovered viciously murdered in bed. The killer struck her skull with a hatchet and tried to make it appear like a simple robbery. 

Although there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding Richard's death, loyal family lawyer, Mr Entwhistle, can't shake off an uneasy feeling. He'd hate to think bad of the family he's served for decades, but before long Cora's live-in companion, Miss Gilchrist, seems marked for murder too. It appears evident that one member of the Abernethie family is a rat, trying to dispose of anybody who might have the slightest inkling of whatever Richard said to his youngest sister. 

It is high time for Entwhistle to call his good friend, Hercule Poirot, out from retirement. If anyone can get to the bottom of the evil menace, surely he can. 

When Poirot investigates the backgrounds of everyone who was present after Richard's funeral, he regards each and every one of them as people who would never commit murder as a general rule, but might make an exception for a special case. (Of course any subsequent incidents are strictly necessary for cover-up.)

He says:

'Let us admit without more ado that the world is full of the young, or even the middle-aged, who wait patiently or impatiently for the death of someone whose decease will give them, if not affluence, then at least opportunity.' 

That applies to everyone. Doesn't it always?

It was a fun read. Several relatives drop humorous one-liners, especially when they're brought together again, ostensibly to select personal keepsakes from Richard's estate. The investigations cleverly paint a composite picture of Cora's character, after she's dead. And some of the other relatives are larger-than-life. George, the closet gambler, Rosamund, the air-headed actress, and Uncle Timothy, the tedious hypochondriac whose wife, Maude, lives to pamper him.

When Poirot gathers them all together in the drawing room to make the big reveal, I still didn't have a clue who to point the finger at, and I prefer it that way. It turns out the crook was willing to go to devious lengths to deflect suspicion. 

* A quick note on my edition's cover: we need to progress pretty far into the story before the significance of the nun becomes apparent. The younger generations' discussion of ladies of the cloth is very amusing once we get there. 

🌟🌟🌟🌟 

  

'Then there were Five' by Elizabeth Enright

This is the third novel in Elizabeth Enright's Melendy Quartet, and I love this original cover design of all five young protagonists, along with the two dogs. Why shouldn't Isaac and John Doe get a look in. If you begin with my reviews of The Saturdays, followed by The Four-Story Mistake, then you'll be up to this one. 

MY THOUGHTS:  

What I find exceptional in this vintage series is Elizabeth Enright's seasonal continuity. This installment takes place in the summer that was highly anticipated during the spring of The Four-Story Mistake. Enright's nature writing, rather than comprising mere background detail, beautifully becomes the backbone of all the unfolding events in the plot. 

The main theme of this third novel is how the Melendys come to adopt a new adolescent brother named Mark, who is almost the same age as Rush. When they first meet him, Mark lives with his abusive cousin Oren, who mistreats him horribly. The manner in which circumstances release Mark from Oren's tyranny is very dramatic, but I won't spoil it.

We are at the point where some reviewers believe the Melendy Quartet departs from its simple charm, since the sordidness of real life breaks in too rudely for them. However, for me the whole point of this third novel is the contrast, and the fact that the Melendy milieu proves strong enough to withstand the dark side of life. By the end, Mark changes from a lonely, starving outcast who craves company to the happy member of a loving family. He's nourished by plenty of wholesome food, literature, music, gardening, and cheeky jokes. In short, all the things that make life good. 

In a world in which we're counselled to slow down and enjoy the small things, that's exactly what the Melendys do. We can't help taking on board their refreshing influence while we immerse ourselves in these stories. (Yep, even though Rush and Mark eavesdrop on some law-breakers at an illicit booze still - horror to some readers! Come on guys, this is a pretty tame story and that incident is great fun.) Those of us who need it even receive encouragement to drop our too-high housekeeping standards.

'Gradually the house regained its normal expression: a look of reasonable order and unprosperous but homely comfort.' 

The WW2 era with its restrictions continues in the background. Father acquires a government job so secret that he can't even allow himself to think about it too loudly. But holding down the home front is his brilliant brood. Mona indulges her new passion for becoming a kitchen goddess, Rush still finds inspiration to compose a stunning sonata even while racing about the district spying on crooks, and Oliver quietly conducts his own private life where butterflies and moths loom large. Observing and appreciating the others with all the energy of her gentle, affectionate heart is the lovely Randy, who can certainly never be accused of taking anything good for granted. 

When Cuffy gets called away for a fortnight to help a convalescing cousin she wonders how they'll ever manage without her. Well may she ask, and the answer to that question comprises a good portion of this book. 

Once again, you must start with The Saturdays, then The Four-Story Mistake, and then you're up to this one. Stay tuned for my discussion of the very last book in this series. 

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟   

'Barnaby Rudge' by Charles Dickens

Summary: Set against the backdrop of the Gordon Riots of 1780, Barnaby Rudge is a story of mystery and suspense which begins with an unsolved double murder and goes on to involve conspiracy, blackmail, abduction and retribution. Through the course of the novel fathers and sons become opposed, apprenctices plot against their masters and anti-Catholic mobs rampage through the streets. And, as London erupts into riot, Barnaby Rudge struggles to escape the curse of his own past. With its dramatic descriptions of public violence and private horror, its strange secrets and ghostly doublings, Barnaby Rudge is a powerful, disturbing blend of historical realism and Gothic melodrama.

MY THOUGHTS: 

Whew, this was a difficult slog indeed. During the story's natural break, just before the action leaps forward five years, I found myself stalled for such a long time. I hadn't enjoyed any of these characters enough to pick up the book again, with the possible exception of Grip the raven. So I had to crank myself started again. It would've been a definite DNF except for my quest to read through all of Dickens major novels, which I'm so close to finishing.  

We have two deplorable fathers. John Willet, the manager of the Maypole Inn, treats his son, Joe, like a menial. And John Chester is a villainous gentleman who aims to destroy his son, Edward's, romance for his own personal gain. There is also Gabriel Varden the locksmith, not a bad dad but an oblivious one who really doesn't notice what's going on beneath his own roof. His odious young apprentice, Simon Tappertit, the ringleader of a secret union of disgruntled apprentices, has the hots for Gabriel's daughter, Dolly. 

The females are no improvement on the males. Dolly Varden is busy playing hard-to-get, sending mixed messages to young Joe Willet. She's one of those aggravating flirts who never realizes what she's lost until her silly games blow up in her face. I do love it that ever since Dickens wrote this novel, Dolly Varden's name has been bestowed on party cakes, dresses, and even marine life such as trout and crabs. So many people who have used the name in these contexts probably don't realize that it comes from this mischievous little coquette and her colorful clothing. 

Dolly's mother is one of Dickens' most annoying characters ever, taking sulks and histrionics to a whole new level. If her husband remarks, 'It's a fine day, my love,' she'll burst into tears and demand his ulterior motive in saying so. That high-maintenance Mrs Varden wasn't remotely comical to me and I wondered how I could bear a whole book with her carrying on all through it.

Dickens aimed to capture his readers' attention with a couple of mysteries at the outset. The first occurred about 22 years before the start of the book, when a gentleman named Reuben Haredale was murdered in his bed while trying to ring his bell for help. The murderer is still at large, and Haredale's orphaned daughter, Emma (the star-crossed lover of young Edward Chester) is straight out of Dickens' usual good-girl mold, who can't do a thing wrong.

The second mystery surrounds Mrs Rudge, the widow of Haredale's steward. Her son, Barnaby, who was born prematurely on that eventful night, is an intellectually handicapped man-boy (boy-man?) whose simple nature makes him the happiest person in the whole novel. He has a pet raven named Grip, who seems more canny than his master in many ways. Barnaby is unaware that his mother is being stalked by an anonymous, despicable desperado who is using Barnaby's wellbeing as some form of blackmail over her. Naturally Mary Rudge knows perfectly well who their antagonist is, but Dickens counts on the reader not guessing until the big reveal.  

So when three inciting rebel leaders, who aim to abolish Catholicism, set foot into this tinder box of reactive characters, everything is all set to blow. We have young men who decide they must head off to be soldiers at all costs, older men who buy into the religious and political fervor, and women who watch it all happen. They all become sucked up into the true historical event which became known as the Gordon Riots. There are a few neat twists, but I didn't like any of the characters (save Grip) enough to care.

Reading over what I've just written, I admit it all somehow sounds like an okay story. But honestly, I'd give this one a miss, unless you're a Dickens completist. As always, his waffling prose and daunting walls of description require awesome, lovable characters to make plowing through them worth our while. So often he's delivered for me, yet this story has nobody I could invest my interest into wholeheartedly. So sadly, Barnaby Rudge, the novel if not the character, gets the thumbs down from me.

🌟🌟 

Note: I'm now only one book short of finishing my quest. Bring on the infamous Old Curiosity Shop! 

Why I'm Quitting Bookstagram

Oh boy, I think I've finally done with that platform. When I first started my Bookstagram account on New Year's Day 2017, I had sky high hopes of how great it would be. At first it seemed to live up to every single one of them. All the kindred spirits and fellow bookworms seemed to be hanging out over there. Even when I began getting tired with the time consuming nature of producing posts, the pros for staying on seemed to outweigh the cons for such a long time. About two years ago I wrote this blog post about the Drawbacks and Benefits of Bookstagram. Perhaps at that stage I was trying to convince myself to hang in there. 

But I've been wearing myself out, even though I definitely don't post a fraction as often as many other Bookstagrammers do. Are they way more dedicated than I am, or do they simply have more stamina? 

Recently I came across Deep Work, a book by Cal Newport that includes a valuable metric to determine whether we should stick with any social media platform that gives us a headache. Here is my paraphrase of his advice. Just because the platform under scrutiny has an undeniable benefit or two doesn't mean we should automatically embrace it in the herd-like manner humans so often display. If we take time to consider our presence on the platform dispassionately, we may discover a column of negatives stacked up heavily on the opposite side. Yet this towering edifice tends to remain in the dark because our attention is focused like a laser on the few meager benefits. Suddenly, under the illuminating beam of this new light, the sacrifice of jumping off the platform may be well worth making.

My driving motivations come down to two.

1) My initial reason for setting up my flag there in the first place. Having a broader social media presence means that more potential readers will discover me, which is every writer's dream.  

2) I've made several online friends on that platform who are fun to engage with.

Hmm, I think the problems really do outweigh these benefits, excellent as they are. 

Firstly, perhaps our reach is not as extensive as we think. I know I'm not the only person who has noticed the weird inverse phenomenon that as your number of followers increases, your engagement of likes and comments seems to slough off. Some people have suggested that it's all to do with the Instagram algorithms. I've come across theories that Instagram promotes new accounts until the account holder gets hooked, then pulls back. I don't know about that. What my husband suggests makes more sense. He thinks that if friends from afar keep adding new friends, then older ones must inevitably slip off their radar, like beads off a string. It's nothing personal, just that the passage of time takes its toll and we all tend to have our time in the sun before friends move on. 

The tug-of-war nature is getting me down. We expect the best of two opposite worlds from one single platform, but the clash is unreasonable in anyone's books. We want firm, solid, lasting friendships, sometimes with people from way across the globe. Yet we also long to build up followings of 1000s. 

As for my second point, when I put on my Bookstagram persona, I'm not as good a friend as I want to be anyway. I'm not comfortable with the person I become when I'm scrolling Booksta. Over there, because I feel stretched thin, I'm a shallow skimmer of friends' posts which deserve far deeper reads. Then I find loads of misplaced guilt on my shoulders, because I never aimed to be the sort of friend who skim reads excellent content. But if I want to keep up with everyone's posts that I follow, it's inevitable that I can't give each one the focused attention it deserves. There isn't enough time in the day. In the half hour I put aside, I would have time for only five or six. And when it comes to making Booksta posts of my own, I get a bit grumpy, grudgingly taking time to condense salient points from blog posts I've already written. If our time for focused attention resembles a well, then too often I feel like I'm sucking mud over there. And that makes me anxious. 

I have no plans to stop blogging here. So if you follow these posts, then rest assured. 

I've spent eight years on Bookstagram. It's not been a flash in the pan. I've had to time to think this through. I'll just pop over occasionally to touch base with the updates of others but not to update myself. I'll try doing without, maybe until the end of the year, and then report back again. Or perhaps the very occasional update without any pretence of scheduling. Hopefully I'll even use the time I would have normally spent doing Bookstagram for more deep reading, engaging with others' blogs and leaving comments there. And I'll be able to get more fiction writing and well-reflected blog posts written. 

We'll see. 

    

'The Minister's Wife' by Anne Berzel

I'm choosing this book for the historical fiction category of my 2025 Aussie Book Challenge. It's quite an oldie, having been published back in 1995, but a beauty. Sadly, it appears to be obscure, since my review will be the first left on Goodreads. Hopefully there are still copies floating around, because I highly recommend it. 

MY THOUGHTS: 

This selection for my Aussie Book Challenge is actually a re-read from my long-ago past. I bought it and loved it back in 1995 when it was first published, and lent it around to my mother, mother-in-law and sisters-in-law, who all loved it too. Now 30 years later, I was curious to read it again to see if it stands up to our enthusiasm.

The novel is set in the lovely rural towns around my state's south east; Mount Gambier, Penola, and Millicent. It's a double-generation story, beginning in the tail end of the nineteenth century and taking us just beyond WW1. Interestingly, an all-day-long working bee involving the whole town in 1917 Mt Gambier takes place within the story, a true, historical event I read about on a plaque overlooking the Blue Lake during a recent visit there. 

First off, Sarah Wetherby's fiance has been killed in an accident, and along with raw grief, she's in a pickle because she's pregnant. Matt Randall, a bitter family outcast estranged from his ex-lover, proposes to Sarah from expediency and sour grapes, and Sarah accepts through desperation. Nothing quite like a good marriage of convenience yarn when it's well done, which this is. Sarah often delivers funny and merciless one-liners, which she continues to aim at Matt even after she falls madly in love with him. 

Okay, so that's Part One.

Sarah's baby is Annabel, who grows up to find herself in a horrifying predicament. Annabel is eager to marry her boyfriend, golden haired Gerald Wilkinson, the young minister. She's an idealistic girl who longs to tick off brownie points in heaven. Yet when the young couple arrives at their new parish miles from home, Gerald quickly proves himself to be the husband from hell; the sort of fanatical jerk who considers emotional abuse to be responsible stewardship. 

The truth slowly dawns on Hayden MacArthur, a fellow minister who's sent to board with the Wilkinson couple. Hayden can't help getting drawn in to become more than an impartial houseguest, which makes him deeply assess the depth of his own theology. 

All characterisation is insightful and finely nuanced. Although he's clearly the anti-hero, Gerald is vulnerable, wretched, and impossible to completely detest (although I came close). He comes across as a particularly demented St. John Rivers from Jane Eyre, right down to the good looks.   

The church, more so than modern times, is the community hub, and any show of devout support earns a person business success and social standing. This makes country neighbourhoods ripe for whitewashing, hypocrisy, and inflexibility. But rather than being too intense, this book is a great read. The plot points are unpredictable, good characters can't be kept down, and all happiness is hard-earned, thus truly memorable.

All up, it's great to get through another great Aussie story with details such as blistering hot Christmases and shimmering clouds of cockatoos rising out of paddocks and fields. I wish the elusive Anne Berzel had written other books, or at least come forth to introduce herself to others of us in the same country, and with the same literary pursuits. I wonder if the name is a pseudonym, because when I look her up, I can't find her anywhere. 

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 

'Elizabeth and her German Garden' by Elizabeth Von Arnim

I discovered this vintage hardcover at a secondhand shop. I wasn't enchanted by The Enchanted April, Von Arnim's runaway bestseller from 1922, but thought this earlier title from 1898 might hit the spot. 

MY THOUGHTS:

 Here is a lovely vintage book for the introvert population written in a series of diary entries.

It is the late nineteenth century. Elizabeth is a young aristocratic woman whose passion project is working in the extensive garden of their secluded country manor. After years of trying to fit in with the world she sees around her, she's astounded to find that a quiet lifestyle puttering away at home, far from the social climbing and drama, suits her to a tee. Now Elizabeth's only aim is to make up for precious time she lost when she kowtowed to the expectations of others, tried to put on an impressive face and cared what people thought of her.

Brushes with others involve assuring them that she is genuinely happy tucked away, for human nature being what it is, they insist in believing that her lifestyle must be desolate and grim for her, since it would be for them. 

However, certain times of the year bring inevitable house guests. During the time period this book covers, Elizabeth finds herself hostess to two other young women. One is Irais, another burned out wife of society whose wit tends to be cynical. Even though Elizabeth likes her a lot, anyone's company tends to be draining in long doses. The other guest is Minora, a simplistic girl who aims to write a book of impressions without a clue that her observations tend to be of the skimming, shallow type. Elizabeth records her own experiments of standing back and letting Irais and Minora clash. 

Elizabeth has three little daughters; the April baby, the May baby, and the June baby. She also has a supercilious husband who she calls the Man of Wrath, and never gives the impression that she's madly in love with him, although there are certainly worse fellows to be found. He reveals himself as a chauvinistic grouch who considers himself a philosopher and remarks that women never speak a word worth listening to, as far as he's ever heard. With the wonderful influence of her restorative garden, Elizabeth doesn't let the Man of Wrath get her down. She's strong enough in herself not to let him.   

'What a happy woman I am living in a garden, with books, babies, birds, and flowers, and plenty of leisure to enjoy them! Yet my town acquaintances look upon it as imprisonment and burying, and I don't know what besides. Sometimes I feel as if I were blest above all my fellows in being able to find my happiness so easily.'

That's my main takeaway from this book. Elizabeth, whose philosophy is far wiser and easier to swallow than her husband's, thrives with the same simple resources at her fingertips as those available to me. She doesn't aim to extend her reach, become any smarter, or embark on any self-improvement program. After several tiring years, she's decided she has nothing to prove. She's one of those refreshing people whose thoughts serve as course corrections, if we're willing for them to be.  

Here's to books, flowers, bird song, cats, hot drinks, leisurely walks, and many other good things. 

🌟🌟🌟🌟½ 

'The Four-Story Mistake' by Elizabeth Enright

Note: I bought a kindle version of this second installment of the Melendy Quartet, but searched around for my favorite cover. I think this Puffin edition from 1997 nails it! The four of them look the perfect image of how I'd imagined them. That took love and care from the artists. A big thumbs up from me. 

MY THOUGHTS:

This second book in the Melendy Quartet is as delightful as The Saturdays, which preceded it. 

The Melendy family relocate from their city home to a droll old house in the country with three storeys and a strange, dome shaped cupola perched on top. There's a sense that Father's catalyst for the move was the furnace incident followed by the attic fire in the first book. Although Randy is initially sentimental about leaving the city, she and the others soon discover that the new residence has even more to recommend it for energetic souls such as themselves, including a brook, summer house, and two iron deer. 

The foursome soon discover a mystery to solve. Why is there a boarded up room off their common room, with a life sized portrait of a girl named Clarinda? Who was she?

There's more of a sense of WW2 playing out in the background than there was in the first book. The Melendy kids aspire to save up for Victory Bonds to be patriotic and help the soldiers. Since the elder pair are now into their teens, they find ways of earning regular incomes. Mona gets a gig acting in a radio show (which she adores). Then Rush taps into a local demand for anybody who might be able to teach piano lessons (which he abhors at first). And Randy makes an unexpected discovery that enables her to contribute her bit too. 

Overall, home is comprised of the loved ones who fill it. Their wise and understanding father provides a solid anchor, even though his line of work means he breezes in and out. Good old Cuffy, as always, is totally invested in them and more like a doting grandma than a housekeeper. Willy Sloper goes along too, with a promotion from furnace man to field hand. Presumably Father must have made him an offer he couldn't refuse.  

I loved this trip into the past through the pages of a book. Based on the compelling Melendy foursome, kids were basically just the same as now, with essential differences due to their era. This is a great homage to keeping secrets just for the sake of it, refreshing in our point in history when we're subtly encouraged to bare all on social media. I especially 'get' Oliver's secretive bent, as a fellow youngest child. All four are great at staying mum, but he's the master of keeping things close to his chest. 

Yet on the flip side, the Melendys are confident and never hide their lights. The older two in particular, are extending feelers for their futures. You'll find no false modesty from Mona and Rush, who know perfectly well where they excel. Their pleasure in putting themselves out there is satisfying to read. 

Tying it all together are seasonal games in the ever-changing backdrop of nature; a menagerie of pets, and impromptu picnics in which sandwiches are thrown together on the spur of the moment. The book is a time machine in itself, making us nostalgic for the 1940s which many of us never lived through. I think my favorite chapter is surely the dramatic night when poor Rush gets stuck up in his treehouse. 

Bring on the third book in the series. I'm still extra keen. (Update: Here is my review of Then there were Five. Look out for the last in the series, Spiderweb for Two.)

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Jane Austen's Novels Ranked

This year, 2025, marks the 250th anniversary of Jane Austen's birth. All year long, her fans around the globe will be celebrating with all sorts of tributes, probably culminating around her actual birthday on December 16th. I must add mine all the way from Adelaide, South Australia to the mix. Here is my ranking of her six major novels. (You might also like to check out my rankings of the Bronte Novels, and the Narnia Chronicles.) Now since there is not an Austen novel I don't like, this took a bit of careful thought, but here goes.  

 1) Pride and Prejudice

Placing this at the very top of my list isn't just because it is one of the pioneer hate-to-love novels. It has never been knocked off its pedestal despite centuries of additions to what has now become a famous trope. That is saying something pretty impressive. It brilliantly delves into motivations for off-the-cuff comments and snap judgments alike. And the superb social commentary and excellent cast of characters makes it a comic masterpiece.

2) Northanger Abbey

Catherine, the gullible teenage bookworm, earns this book its spot as my second favorite. I see such a lot of my old teenage self in her. Assuming that everyone else looks at the world through her own good-natured lens is Catherine's downfall, as she has such a lot to learn about shady social climbers and fickle fortune hunters. In addition to this, it's a powerful homage to the power of books and the unflagging enthusiasm of fangirls (and guys) throughout the centuries. Loyal readers keep any book's momentum alive and well. It has always been that way and always will be. 

3) Persuasion

Anne and Wentworth's second-chance romance is a satisfying burn. The chemistry between them is easily ignited after years of hurt feelings, which makes it a wondrous discovery that those bridges have not been burned. I also enjoy seeing Wentworth get more than he bargains for by the rash behavior of Louisa, a young lady who he initially admires for being Anne's antithesis. And Jane Austen gives naval men a plug, probably on behalf of several hard-working brothers of hers. They surely deserved it.

4) Sense and Sensibility

Elinor Dashwood is another favorite heroine of mine. She has a kind heart, yet her bull dust radar is very finely honed. And her love interest, Edward Ferrars, deserves kudoes too, for staying quiet and modest in such a pretentious family unit as his. Along with this, we all have a lot to learn from Marianne's months-long meltdown, and the existence of despicable young men like Willoughby, who'll ghost a girl for such mercenary, self-focused reasons. Girls, it really is him, not you! 

5) Emma

There have been quite a few classic stories about the perils of matchmaking, and this is one of the very best. The smug Miss Woodhouse truly needs to learn that she's not as brilliant at it as she thinks she is. Her guinea pigs live deeper lives than she sees on the surface, and her stuff-ups are a hard way to learn this. The men and women she manipulates are not mere pawns on the board, and she is not a master chess player. How could Emma possibly foresee the secret plans of the likes of Mr Elton, or Frank Churchill? Even characters we rarely see on the page come across as complex and 'real.' 

6) Mansfield Park

I'm not a great fan of Fanny and Edmund's romance or their neat, critical assessments of other people's characters, but I love the social commentary and family saga. Fanny occupies an Old Testament prophet type of position. She's the only person who clearly sees moral corruption simmering away, yet she's also the least esteemed member of the family. What can be done? This novel has one of my least favorite Austen characters of all time, Mrs Norris, which might help drag it down to sixth place, although her disgusting nature is a clear sign of Jane's brilliant writing. 

Well, that's my ranking, and it took a bit of pondering to figure it out. I guess there must be every combination of these six possible, as Austen fans are as numerous as the sand grains on a beach. I tend to think Northanger Abbey doesn't get the love it deserves, which accounts for my high ranking. Overall, this makes me want to read every single one of these six all over again. You can check out my reviews of all of them on my Jane Austen Page.

Now tell me, what would your ranking be? 

'The Search for Delicious' by Natalie Babbitt

I remember being extremely enchanted by this book during silent reading sessions at Primary School. When I came across a copy at a secondhand book sale, I decided to see if it lives up to my memory of it. 

MY THOUGHTS: 

The Prime Minister of a nameless kingdom with medieval vibes is writing an official dictionary, yet he's stumped when he reaches the word 'delicious'. Nobody can agree on an example, for in this volume, a definition alone won't suffice without back-up. Arguments erupt in the royal court, and civil war seems imminent.

The king decrees an official poll of every citizen in the kingdom. Surely selecting the most popular choice must be the obvious solution. The PM's adopted son, Gaylen, is assigned the job of riding around on his horse, recording votes. But it's soon clear to him that there are almost as many definitions of delicious as there are people. Finer nuances make the ultimate decision even more elusive, for people love to split hairs. (For example, an apple tart can be flavoured with cinnamon rather than nutmeg, and the addition of sharp, yellow cheese really sets it off.) Although fun at first, all the unrest and bitterness soon rests heavily on this 12-year-old's shoulders. 

To thicken the plot even more, the queen's evil brother, Hemlock, takes advantage of all the rioting to attempt to steal the kingdom. His secret knowledge of the magical underworld stands him in good stead. There are ancient woldwellers living up trees, busy dwarves forging treasures in the depths of caves, and the sad legend of Ardis, a beautiful little mermaid who lost her doll. 

Young Gaylen is in big trouble. If being pelted with rotten vegetables isn't enough to deal with, he stumbles across the insurrection plot and feels in way over his head. 

But Gaylen is the archetypical innocent protagonist who experiences fantastic strokes of luck. Most are overly coincidental by far, and the significance of these chance encounters never strikes him until much later on. The boyish, pure-hearted hero has what the dastardly villain lacks, which is the consistent knack of being in the right place at the right time. 

Of course, circumstances cause an entire army to reach a unanimous agreement about the ultimate delicious treat, and it's all Hemlock's fault. (Even as a kid, I remember feeling somewhat let down, and still think that 'delicious' isn't quite the right word. To say more would be to reveal a spoiler.) 

It's quite a cool little tale about the potentially disastrous foibles of human nature. The boy, Gaylen, often shakes his head over the silliness of taking such a survey at all, but haven't many wars throughout history been triggered by ridiculous disagreements? Pitshaft, the dwarf, nails it when he says, 'People are so foolish, they waste their time even though they have so little of it. We (dwarves) have forever, yet we never waste a moment.' 

My best takeaway as a grown-up reader is the lyrics of this song from Canto the minstel. 

'The way is long and high and hot,

Be gay and sing! You may as well

Be feeling light of heart as not.

The way is long and high and hot,

But mime the birds and praise your lot.

Sweet freedom is the tale to tell.

The way is long and high and hot,

Be gay and sing! You may as well.' 

🌟🌟🌟½ 

'The Saturdays' by Elizabeth Enright

MY THOUGHTS: 

I discovered this treasure in a secondhand bookshop when I needed a bit of cheering up. It's the first novel in a series about the four Melendy siblings, who live in New York City around the late 1930s or early 1940s. Their widowed father is a writer and lecturer, and their warm-hearted housekeeper, Cuffy, holds down home base, pretending to have a short fuse although they know her patience is bottomless. The pragmatic handyman, Willy Sloper, is almost a member of the family too, since neverending maintenance work, especially on the temperamental furnace, keeps him always nearby. 

The four kids each receive a weekly allowance which is welcome but limited. One day they come up with a brilliant egalitarian idea. Each week they will pool the total and take turns on Saturdays doing something more grandiose and expensive than they'd ever be able to afford separately. 

Aesthetic and whimsical Randy (short for Miranda), kicks off by visiting an art gallery exhibition where she makes a stunning discovery about somebody they thought they all knew well. The following weekend, her mischievous and musical brother, Rush, attends an opera and makes an unexpected friend who ends up being a life saver. Next, their eldest sister Mona, pushes the boundaries with an impulse that shocks her family. Then the youngest, little Oliver, decides to break out as a rebel by making a sudden circus trip. 

This is just the sort of vintage juvenile fiction I love. All the good-natured snarky comments never hide the fact that they all have each others' backs. Self-conscious Mona likes perfume to be so strong that people can enter a room 24 hours after you've left and still know you've been. Inquisitive Oliver hasn't learned his limits with food, and gorges until he busts. Resourceful Rush develops wonderfully sensible ideas about accepting charity, and dreamy Randy has a knack of discovering things that belong to her in a special way that has nothing to do with ownership. 

The adults are great characters too, with combinations of strengths and flaws. Somehow, it tickles my fancy when down-to-earth old Willy humors young Rush by discussing opera with him. When he finally tells his twelve-year-old friend, 'What you see in stuff like that is more than I can understand,' I had to laugh.

Perhaps Randy speaks for all of them when she comments that although their lives are probably pretty humdrum as a rule, somehow they never seem humdrum. They all have the fortunate skill of appreciating the small things, despite occasional bouts of boredom. 

Going on with the rest of this series is a matter of course.

I reckon these kids might've been born roughly the same time as my Dad, which gives me a buzz. Now I must add Rush and Randy to my favourite bro-and-sis bonds in classic lit. They even share the same dream one pivotal night. And if you do pick up the book, I think my favourite chapter is the one with the furnace. You'll instantly know when you get to that spot.

(Note: Its structure and theme reminds me a bit of this book which I read about a year ago, but I think the intentional nature of the Melendy family plan makes The Saturdays the superior novel.)

Look out for more of my reviews of The Melendy Quartet, which are coming soon.

Here is my review of the second in the quartet, The Four-Story Mistake, and the third, Then there were Five. Final instalment, Spiderweb for Two is coming soon. 

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'The Dickens Boy' by Tom Keneally

Summary: The tenth child of Charles Dickens, Edward Bulwer Lytton Dickens, known as Plorn, had consistently proved unable 'to apply himself ' to school or life. So aged sixteen, he is sent, as his brother Alfred was before him, to Australia.

MY THOUGHTS: 

This is an excellent novel strongly based on fact, although I'm not a fan of the dull, minimalistic cover design. It doesn't do the story justice. But the novel itself is a great addition to my 2025 Aussie Book Challenge.

The main character, who tells his own story, is Charles Dickens' youngest son, Edward Bulwer Lytton Dickens. When he was a baby, his father nicknamed him Plornishmaroontigoonter, and our teenage protagonist still introduces himself as 'Plorn.' Poor Plorn is sent down to work on an Australian sheep station, ostensibly to help him apply himself, since he wasn't excelling at school in Britain. 

25-year-old Alfred Dickens, one of Plorn's elder brothers, has already lived in Australia for some time. Having been sent down by their 'guvnor' for similar reasons, Alfred is redeeming himself by working steadily as the manager of another sheep station. Alfred assures Plorn that if he tries to come across as a 'sportsman and a likeable chap,' the Australians will warm to him.

Plorn enters the colony hoping for some relief from his terrible secret. He's never read a single one of their father's books. His justification is the same as that given by many modern readers. The 'armies of paragraphs' crammed into them are offputting at the outset. Plorn has heard enough snippets over the years to do some believable bluffing, but he's in for a nasty shock. The people down in the colony are as hungry for his father's stories as any Briton could possibly be. For them, Charles Dickens is a cult hero, a megastar, a literary deity to stir up their latent sensibilities. 'Your father is like an extension of the gospels.' 

Plorn is bamboozled on two levels. Firstly, he considers himself an awkward and unworthy object of vicarious celebrity. 'I'm just a schoolboy, and not a smart one.' All the attention is cringeworthy and embarrassing. Secondly, he suspects that his father's feet of clay unqualify him for his untouchable reputation. Not least is the fact that the guvnor has sent away Plorn's mother, who bore his ten children, to begin his fling with Ellen Ternan, an actress far younger than himself. 

As with many youngest children, Plorn is a peacemaker; an empathetic seventeen-year-old who longs to believe the best of everybody. Hence, he's discouraged by his heart-to-hearts with Alfred, who insists on pointing out that when their father wanted to get rid of someone in his books, he either killed them off or sent them to Australia. Plorn tries his best to ignore Alfred's implication for the pair of them, but it becomes increasingly harder to turn a blind eye. For the lofty Charles Dickens, those who don't measure up to his great expectations (yep, pun intended) are sent to 'that pit at the end of the world where you toss useless folk in,' characters and sons alike. 

The wide, hot land is nothing like anyone imagined, and everyone is essentially winging it, while Britain is still referred to as Home with a capital H. For young Plorn Dickens, it becomes a crucible in which he faces up to some home truths about himself and his family that he might have overlooked if he'd stayed in England. He comes across bushrangers and bandits, natives and shearers, a wannabe author, a cougar who wants to 'have her Dickens' and a gracious housekeeper who professes to value Catherine Dickens' cookbook over all Charles' novels. In the process, Plorn becomes a different person than the boy who might have stayed home. 

Perhaps a better one.

My overall verdict is this. If you're an Aussie, this is well worth a read. Same if you've plowed through all or most of Dickens' major works. If you can tick both boxes (like me) this is unmissable, because we will get all the references for a start. Not to mention, we get to enjoy these two likeable Dickens sons, who felt themselves to be fall-shorts but who experienced and appreciated the land down under, which their father never once set foot in.  

🌟🌟🌟🌟½

'There are no Accidents' by Robert H Hopcke

Summary: A woman is set up on a blind date with the same man twice, years apart, on two different coasts. A singer's career changes direction when she walks into the wrong audition. A husband gives his wife an unexpected gift—after she repeatedly dreams about that very same item.

It was Carl Jung who coined the term "synchronicity" for those strange coincidences that we all experience—those moments when events seem to conspire to tell us something, to teach us, to turn our lives around. They are the strange plot developments that make us feel like characters in a grand, mysterious story.

MY THOUGHTS: 

The subtitle of this non-fiction book is 'Synchronicity and the Stories of our Lives.' I don't review every non-fiction book I ever read, but make an exception for those with material I'd really love to remember. I discovered this book at a secondhand shop, which itself might be a stroke of fortune. 

The word 'synchronicity' itself was coined by the Swiss psychoanalyst, Carl Jung, and the simplest definition is, 'a meaningful coincidence.' In this book, Hopcke first puts forward five hallmarks that are generally ticked off in any typical synchronistic event.

1) They are acausally connected, instead of having any sequence that can be attributed to cause and effect. 

2) They often occur with the accompaniment of deep emotional resonance. Often this occurs at the time of the event itself, but not always. (I've experienced a combination of on-the-spot and delayed revelations.)

3) The content is symbolic in its nature. (This opens interesting fields such as the collective unconscious, which is something like a psychic storehouse of the human race that contains collections of symbols or 'archetypes' which may take the form of people or situations. My interest in archetypes has been stirred as a result of reading this book.)

4) They often occur at points of important transitions in our lives. 

5) They tend to contain a numinous tone. In other words, when they occur, we feel that we are undeniably and irresistibly in the presence of the divine. 

Hopcke advises us early on to willingly listen to whatever life presents. And being a writer, I love his suggestion that given the dramatic quality of synchronistic events, it may be that true life sometimes mimics fiction, rather than vice versa. 

I also appreciate the idea, reflected in many of these anecdotes, that when things don't go to plan, the results may prove to be fortuitous rather than disastrous. Jung posited that they 'relativize the ego.' That is, they help tame our human desire to be controllers and masters of everything we face. Instead, synchronicities may lead us to see things from a larger perspective, with a far broader wisdom than anything we can comprehend. (Whew, I'd love to think so.)

Over the years I've come across thoughts by Christian authors on similar topics, but these writers have an agenda, so to speak. It's refreshing that Hopcke considers himself to hold an agnostic point of view, yet has still researched deeply enough to see that something deeper than what we can wrap our heads around is at play. 

He believes that nocturnal dreams may be assumed meaningful, but not in the sense that dream dictionaries with alphabetical listings may have us believe, for humans are not formed from cookie cutters and nothing is that pat. Similar dream scenarios may hold different significance for different people. 

Hopcke suggests that examining synchronistic events is similar to interpreting the meaning of a story, which every English and Creative Writing student is drilled to do. A vast variety of possible applications abound, and we must take into account our subjective experiences (how they made us feel, what they made us think, how they fit into our overall stories). 

I loved reading the many examples he's collected from several people. Some of the synchronicities seem feather-light, yet still tick the features from the list above. Reading these reinforce to me that I've experienced several in my own life. I won't inflate this review by including them here, but if I ever write about them in detail, I'll link it back to this post. 

I gotta love the thought that some invisible hand at work supplies our bulwark and meaning all through life, gently shifting scenes into place when we're clueless. That sort of evidence is abundant here. 

I'll finish off with this quote in full, from the father of synchronicity, Carl Jung.

'The problem of synchronicity has puzzled me for a long time, ever since the middle twenties when I was investigating the phenomena of the collective unconscious and kept coming across connections which I simply could not explain as chance groupings or "runs". What I found were coincidences which were connected so meaningfully that their chance occurrence would represent a degree of improbability that would have to be expressed by an astronomical figure.'  

Wow!

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'Three Act Tragedy' by Agatha Christie

Summary: Who wouldn't be pleased to attend a small dinner party being held by Sir Charles Cartwright, once the leading star of the London stage? At his "Crow's Nest" home in Loomouth, Cornwall.

Unfortunately, thirteen guests arrived at the actor's house, most unlucky. One of them was a vicar. It was to be a particularly unlucky evening for the mild-mannered Reverend Stephen Babbington, who choked on his cocktail, went into convulsions and died. But when his martini glass was sent for chemical analysis, there was no trace of poison -- just as Hercule Poirot, also in attendance, had predicted. Even more troubling for the great detective, there was absolutely no motive!

MY THOUGHTS:

Sir Charles Cartwright, the famous retired actor, is having a party when one of his guests, Reverend Stephen Babbington, dies suddenly after sipping a cocktail. A short time later, celebrated nerve specialist, Sir Bartholomew Strange, dies drinking port at a gathering of his own. Alarmingly, some of the guests were present at both functions. And in both instances, the verdict turns out to be poisoning by means of a highly concentrated dose of pure nicotine. 

Sir Charles convinces two friends to help him figure it out. Mr Satterthwaite is an elderly patron of the arts. Miss Hermione Lytton Gore (nicknamed Egg!) is a star-struck girl who's fallen heavily for Sir Charles. Together, this unlikely trio takes on an extremely puzzling mystery.

Who would want either of the two lovely gentlemen dead; community pillars as they both were? How could they possibly be connected, if at all? Luckily a fourth truth-seeker pops up, who was present at the first murder, and whose interest has been piqued. It's our old friend Hercule Poirot. The professional detective understands that the amateur trio think they're onto it, so he graciously offers to stand back and not be a party pooper. Poirot will let Sir Charles have the glory of unraveling the crimes even if he has to spoon feed very broad clues. 

Okay, first for the nitpicking. To start with, there's something a bit tasteless about making any sort of a game out of murder, don't you think? Secondly, Sir Charles is way, way too old for Egg, even in an era when young girls idolized older men. And thirdly, getting used to her strange nickname takes a bit of effort at the outset. (I noticed a couple of other reviewers claim that was too big a stumbling block for them altogether, but I wouldn't go that far. A young woman has a right to call herself Egg if she wants to.)

Now the minor grumbles are out of the way, the solution is so audacious and ingenious. There was no way I could have possibly figured this one out, although several clues were laid before us. The red herrings are fantastic and the cast of suspects is varied, interesting, and seemingly motiveless across the board. There is a nice little lover's triangle, low-key as it is. And Poirot shines at his very best, and even offers a valid reason to Mr Satterthwaite for his continual boasting. He claims that making himself a deliberate target of people's gentle ridicule helps put them off guard regarding him. Hmmm. 

Other than all that, I wonder if Egg's defense of the Christian faith mirrors Christie's own.

'I really believe in Christianity, not like Mother does - with little books and early service and things - but intelligently and as a matter of history. The Church is all clotted up with the Pauline tradition, in fact the Church is a mess, but Christianity itself is alright... The Babbingtons really were Christians; they didn't poke and pry and condemn, and they were never unkind about people or things.' 

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'A Long, Fatal Love Chase' by Louisa May Alcott

Summary: 'I'd gladly sell my soul to Satan for a year of freedom,' cries Rosamond Vivian to her callous grandfather. A brooding stranger seduces her from the remote island onto his yacht. Trapped in a web of intrigue, cruelty, and deceit, she flees to Italy, France, Germany, from Paris garret to mental asylum, from convent to chateau - stalked by obsessed Phillip Tempest.

Two years before Little Women, serialized in a magazine under the alias A.M. Barnard in 1866, this was buried among the author's papers over a century.

MY THOUGHTS:

Whew, Louisa May Alcott does Wilkie Collins here. This is the Gothic thriller she wrote a couple of years before Little Women. My edition's title is abbreviated to, 'The Chase' but I prefer to use its full dramatic, somewhat spoilerish name. It was rescued from the woodwork and published posthumously as recently as 1995!  

Rosamond Vivian is stuck in a home near the sea with her gruff grandfather, and longs to stretch her wings. In the very first paragraph she declares that she'd gladly sell her soul to Satan for a year of freedom. Enter Phillip Tempest, a 'pupil' of her grandfather's. He sports a scarred forehead and looks exactly like a picture of Mephistopheles, the folklore demon. A tree that was planted the day of Rosamond's birth is struck down by lightning the night she meets him, but she overlooks this chilling omen and falls prey to his charm.

They get married and she cruises around the Mediterranean in his yacht, the Circe, having the time of her life. Then Rosamond discovers what a bad egg he is; a liar with a seamy past who's completely devoid of conscience. Rosamond decides to flee, but Phillip is always on her trail. Even though the world is a huge place in which to vanish, especially given rudimentary 19th century technology, Tempest and his creepy henchman, Baptiste, keep tracking her down. 

The scenes of the novel, scattered across Europe, include a convent and a lunatic asylum. When Rosamond gets to know the heroic and sexy young Father Ignatius, who made his vows a bit too prematurely, she realizes that her love for Tempest was based on naivety and restlessness. Yet her girlhood mistake is there to haunt her. She can't throw off the stalker from hell, who presumably never heard the saying, 'If you love somebody, set them free.' 

If you think it sounds melodramatic and theatrical, you'd be right.  

In terms of the Little Women universe, this reminds me of a plot Jo might have written for Meg to act the leading role in. And to judge from Jo's experiences writing sensationalized potboilers in the big city, Alcott herself became a bit shamefaced about her earlier writing. Although Louisa initially enjoyed writing it and resisted her publisher's request to come up with a wholesome 'book for girls', it appears from the earnestness of her subsequent work that she later changed her mind. I suspect this is the style of work Professor Bhaer surmised that Jo was ashamed to own up to. It is of material such as this that he states, 'I'd rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than this bad trash.' (Haha)

'She was living in bad society, imaginary though it was... she was feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and unsubstantial food.'

That's Alcott's nineteenth century way of commenting that stories like this may well be the junk food of literature. There's nothing overly shocking or gratuitous about The Chase, but nothing inspiring or stirring either. I understand how Alcott might been embarrassed about the quality of her earlier work in retrospect. Now I wonder if it's fair or ethical that this should have been brought to light for publication so long after her death, for I'm willing to bet she wouldn't have wanted it to be. 

The dastardly Phillip Tempest states, 'I like horrible books if they have power.' Fair enough, but I'm not convinced this fits that bill either. 

'Overcome by conflicting emotions of gratitude and grief, surprise and shame, Rosamond covered her face and threw herself at the feet of the actress.'

 In a world in which authors are encouraged to tread lightly, 'show not tell', and rarely name emotions, this is shockingly heavy-handed writing. 

Yet it's very interesting for Alcott fans to trace her personal development. Although the distinct genres make it a bit like comparing apples to oranges, the Little Women universe is far more to my taste.

🌟🌟 

'Playing Beatie Bow' by Ruth Park

I first studied this book as an assigned text for Year 9 English, which is longer ago than I care to admit. It was only four years after it was first published though, so that's a broad clue. Anyway, it was high time to revisit it, for my 2025 Aussie Reading Challenge.

Despite being on my school syllabus, the book lingers fondly in my memory, and no wonder. The story combines two excellent genres, time travel and family drama. What is not to love?

MY THOUGHTS:

It's a true blue Aussie, Sydney setting, and the winner and runner-up of multiple awards, the most noteworthy being the Children's Book Council of Australia Book of the Year award in 1981 when it was still brand new. 

14-year-old Abigail Kirk is fuming mad. Returning home after a major dispute with her mother, she makes a wrong turn, not in space but in time. When Abigail decides to follow a strange little girl with shorn hair who's been hanging around her apartment building, she's led to a bewildering world where the basic street layout is familiar, but strangely old-fashioned and off-kilter. It's the colony of New South Wales back in 1873, where Abigail is still just a few blocks from home, yet over 100 years away.

Owing to an accident out the front, the little girl's family takes Abigail in. That spiky, smart child turns out to be Beatie Bow herself. Beatie's father, Samuel, is a confectioner by trade and former soldier who suffers sudden violent outbursts caused by PTSD. Wise old Granny, whose gift of second sight once burned strong, holds her son-in-law's family together. Gentle cousin Dovey is dutiful and beautiful in a porcelain doll sort of way. Then there are Beatie's two brothers. Sickly, morbid little Gibbie just escaped dying of fever, and can't stop dwelling on it; and Judah, the dependable, sunny-hearted sailor boy steals Abigail's heart. 

Ruth Park's sensory detail is immersive, making us feel like eye-witnesses. (For example, Abigail feels grossed out for being more grotty than normal in the Victorian era, although Granny and Dovey are slightly offended, because they take pains to be as clean as they possibly can.) 

Abigail overhears mysterious whispers that she's 'the Stranger' who is destined to appear from out of nowhere to save 'the Gift' for the family. And it turns out she accidently carries something on her person that facilitates her leap back in time. So this story is more than just time tourism, there is a vital mystery quest to solve and fulfil before she can hope to return to the twentieth century (or try to return!).

Although I loved it as much as before, I'm taking off half a star because of something I overlooked back then. Poor Abigail gets gaslighted for kicking up a stink regarding her parents, yet I find her reaction to their news is perfectly legitimate. She received a shattering blow to her trust and personhood four years earlier when her father ran off with another woman, and now her reuniting parents expect her to swallow their sudden line, 'We'll all fly off to Norway and be a happy family again.' I don't blame Abigail for questioning and resisting this cheesy new development when it is simply sprung on her. Yet she is treated like a nuisance and a spanner in the works by her mother and her conscience alike.  

Consequently, Abigail's experiences in the nineteenth century cause her to whitewash her dad's betrayal merely because he was struck by Cupid's arrow! She herself falls for Judah, who has a momentary leaning her way that lasts no longer than an afternoon, so now Abigail is willing to wipe the slate clean because her father's desertion of his family was all about lurve!! The theme, 'You have to experience love to know how powerful it is,' makes me facepalm in this instance, even though I'm a total romantic at heart. And then Abigail apologises to him!

'What a little dope I was, Daddy!'

Nope, he was the bigger dope. Forgiving him is fair enough, but bearing any reproach and shame on her own shoulders, for totally understandable and natural feelings, irks me. Abigail is gaslighting herself in effect, and Mr Kirk sure gets off lightly. 

But overall, I got a lovely book hangover, just as I did before, to the extent that I'm going to discuss some plot spoilers below the red line, in case you're interested. 

THE RED LINE - If you want no plot spoilers, read no further.

* I was mildly horrified that during the blazing house fire, everyone forgot Gibbie for so long! Sure, Dovey's bridal chest contained a vital garment, but would that really be the first thing to spring to the minds of Granny and Dovey, as well as Abigail? Actually, I'm more than mildly horrified!

* Nooooo, not Judah!!! I guess he had to perish in that shipwreck (sniff) to validify Abby's last-minute rescue of Gibbie, and preserve the Gift. But it seems a cruel twist for Granny and Dovey to die of typhoid a couple of years later. We also get a glimpse of Mr Bow expiring in a lunatic asylum. Sure, the nineteenth century was brutal, but I wish Ruth Park hadn't added those extra bits.

* The family prophecy seems somewhat problematic. Everyone is sure that out of the four remaining members of the younger generation (Judah, Dovey, Beatie, and Gibbie) it has to be one for death and one for barrenness. But hold on, Samuel and Amelia Bow lost a few other kids in infancy. Why couldn't the prophecy have referred to any one of them? 

* Whatever becomes of Beatie and Gibbie in the short term? By the time these two kids have lost everyone (Judah, Granny, Dovey, and their father), they are still only 15 and 14 years old at the most. So young to be totally bereft in a harsh era. Well, at least we know that Beatie eventually becomes a highly successful (and grumpy) classical scholar and headmistress, and Gibbie hooks up with some girl who he presumably marries and has at least one kid with. But oh, like Abigail, the interim stimulates my curiosity. 

* The classic time travel hiccup of a future traveler seriously changing the trajectory isn't emphasized in this story, yet Abigail still indirectly saves the life of Robert, the man we assume she eventually marries, and also her friend, Justine, and the two kids. If Abby hadn't plucked their grandfather (however many greats) from the jaws of death when he was 10, they would never have been born. 

🌟🌟🌟🌟½  

'A Traveller in Time' by Alison Uttley

Summary: This unusual novel is set in rural Derbyshire in the old manor house, Thackers, where the Babington family and their servant, Cicely Taberner, lived when Elizabeth I was Queen of England. The descendants of the Taberners have farmed the land through the centuries, and to the Taberners of the present day comes Penelope, their great-niece, a sensitive, imaginative girl, who is aware of other layers of time. With her awakened vision she sees people of the past move in their daily tasks among those of the present, and behind the contented life of the household of Cicely and Barnabas Taberner she finds the old tragedy of Anthony Babington and his plot to save Mary, Queen of Scots, being re-enacted.

MY THOUGHTS:  

This vintage YA time travel tale was first published in 1939.

The main character is Penelope Taberer Cameron, a lonely, delicate bookworm. She's sent for an extended stay to Thackers Farm, owned by elderly Aunt Tissie and Uncle Barnabas. Penelope's older siblings, Alison and Ian, go along too, but it happens that only Penelope possesses the rare family gift of second sight, which becomes her time travel catalyst. 

Time travel, in this story, strikes me as a double exposure sort of phenomenon, similar to old, wind-on film cameras. Every so often a scenario from the past is superimposed over Penelope's routine twentieth century life. She is frequently drawn back to the 1500s, when Thackers was owned by the Babington family, who were closet Catholics and staunch supporters of Mary, Queen of Scots during the time she was imprisoned by her cousin, Elizabeth I. 

Young Master Anthony Babington is a red-hot rebel who devotes his life to plans for Mary's release. His younger brother, Francis, becomes Penelope's good friend. Of course, Penelope has the awkward knowledge from her future vantage point that Mary gets executed, but blurting this out earns her no popularity.

Sadly, this book gets the thumbs down from me. It's essentially a history text book written in the guise of a time travel novel to fool the unwary. Different characters tend to launch into lengthy summaries about their life and times for Penelope's benefit (and therefore the reader's). This makes for wooden characterization. And they're all quite chill with the startling way she bobs up every so often in their private chambers, interrupting intimate moments, then disappearing again, supposedly to return to her family in London. 

What's more, modern historical fiction authors advise us that there's no need to divulge every snippet we research. Since this is a text book in disguise, Uttley ignores all this and crams in every trivial detail she can possibly manage. 

I used to come across this type of book during our homeschooling days, when they were highly recommended. Fellow homeschooling parents seemed to love these incognito history books masquerading as novels. ('The children are learning about the past without even knowing it, hehehe, shh.') I'm sure they knew it alright, like being hit with a brick. It makes for tedious reading, and I'd be willing to bet several kids throughout the decades decided they hated reading novels based on specimens like this. 

I don't deny there are a few nice touches. For example, when Anthony Babington loses his precious miniature of Queen Mary which he considers a good luck talisman, Penelope finds it as he asks her to, but in the twentieth century, where it's no good to him. For in this particular time travel universe, inanimate objects are not portable back and forth. 

I've noticed several other reviewers have called it, 'a beautiful novel' because of its depth of description, and some of the finer details about agrarian Elizabethan life that comes to light, along with the lovely illustrations by Faith Jaques. My reply would be, 'Sure, it might be beautiful, but it certainly doesn't tick my boxes of what makes a decent novel.' 

I love a good novel, and I like a well-written text book, but I have no time for these sneaky hybrids.

🌟🌟

25th Anniversary of 'Picking up the Pieces'

It's now 25 years since I've been a published author. This first hit the shelves around February 2000.

I was in my late twenties, with a great idea derived from a nocturnal dream. It started with a date rape, following which the perpetrator's life is devastated as thoroughly as his victim's. My challenge was to elicit strong reader sympathy for both of them, and I'm sure I succeeded, for in quarter of a century, I heard mostly positive feedback. It fitted the Christian fiction market I aimed it for, because of the strong redemption, grace, and forgiveness themes. 

My first ever sales opportunity made me quake in my shoes. I set up a stall of hot-of-the-press copies at a combined churches rally in the Adelaide Hills where we lived at the time, and sold only two copies. I hoped that abysmal response wouldn't prove to be a precedent of what to expect. Thankfully over time, quite a few thousand copies were sold, with a second printing and brand new publisher. And at around the halfway point, in 2014, the novel won a first prize in a category of the International Book Award. 

The story still holds a strong place in my heart, because of all the excitement I found hard to keep a lid on, my comparative youth, and hard work. I had a new-born baby who I would drive to sleep in her car-capsule while her brother was at kindergarten, and then I'd park at some attractive spot and work on my writing. Both kids are now grown up with the addition of a 20-year-old brother. Coincidentally, I was the same age my oldest son (that kindy kid) is now; 29 just turning 30 for the publication date. When I mentioned that the slide from 30 to 55 seems fairly rapid, he wasn't impressed. 

The purpose of this post is to celebrate that memorable stepping-stone. I've always loved the idea of time travel, including the notion of receiving insight from an older version of myself. If such a thing was possible, I've now reached  a perspective (just turned 55) where I could speak back to my younger self (just turned 30).

The first thing I would tell her is that I have grown much older, but not rich or famous, or even well-known, as I'd fantasised. But I'm still writing! And that's the main thing. (I know she would've been disappointed to have heard that first bit, so I would've had to break it to her gently.)

Here are a few more things I've picked up in that quarter century I might've told her, or anyone else who might want to eavesdrop.

1) It's true when writers claim, 'My characters are my friends.'

I've heard that this comes across as an exaggerated claim, but it's nonetheless true. The thing to understand is that our relationships with our characters converge a lot with the ones we have with our flesh-and-blood family and friends. Our 'real' people are precious to us for obvious reasons. They make great sounding boards as we do life together, and often deliver surprises as their lives unfold along with ours. With fictional characters, the same thing happens but from deep within our psyches. For me, it's never been a matter of sitting down and nutting out a plot. There is a lot of spontaneity involved in getting to know the characters. Scenes in which they communicate, react, and develop bubble up from my imagination. So given this sort of ongoing revelation, of course I consider them to be friends!

But it's the same with the characters of other authors, when they're well written. Any characters at all have the potential to become our friends, even when we are technically not theirs. 

2) Sadly, readers owe us nothing.

The quantity of feedback we receive isn't at all proportionate to the amount of time, passion, sacrifice, and vision we pour into each project. Each reader gets to enjoy the outcome of a writer's work for the couple of hours they take to read it, but they are under no obligation to pat our backs. Perhaps it's a good thing if it never occurs to the average reader that the souls of the writers hang over their shoulders like eager puppy-dogs, pawing their arms and demanding, 'Did you like it, did you like it, did you like it?' Who needs that sort of pressure?

I think this neediness is excusable on our part, because of the sheer volume of time and passion we've expended. But for our own peace of mind, we have to let it go. We must untwine the roots of ego that are tendrilled tightly around our brainchildren. We must regard the world of readers out there as a potentially friendly ocean we'll never fathom, rather than demanding echo chambers of our characters' worth and ours. 

To use another metaphor, feedback is something like priceless gold dust. It shouldn't be our fertilizer, because it's sparse by its very nature. The only way to keep our enthusiasm and inspiration flourishing is through the joy of the project itself. We can be high-maintenance hothouse plants that bloom only when sprinkled with rare praise and accolades, or we can be more like the agapanthus that grows along my front fence, which is self-renewing. I never get out there and so much as water it, yet each summer, new flowers predictably pop. After all this time, I've learned that it's a no-brainer to choose the second.

3) People's memories aren't as long as ours.

The accolades and awards that have come my way have been fewer and further between than my turn-of-the-century self would have hoped, and they've taught me something sobering but valuable. It's simply that people other than myself quickly forget about them.  

Why should they remember, after all? My dad once told me a story of how he kicked an astounding, match-winning goal when he was a young man who played football. He said that although he was the hero of the day, he'd be willing to bet that all those years later, not another soul remembered that event. That's liberating perspective.

 Everyone's grey matter is limited, so their own milestones must take priority. And with the passing of enough time, even we begin to forget our own milestones, if we don't take care to record and revisit them. 

I'll finish up by quoting in full this fantastic snippet of wisdom by an author named Joe Moran in his book, 'If You Should Fail: A Book of Solace. (I don't consider Picking up the Pieces or any of my other eight published books failures by any means, but that's the title of his book.)

He says:

'No truly worthwhile act has any surety of return. All creative work is a long-odds wager with our time and our lives. Books get pulped and shredded into road aggregate. Plays are performed to half full auditoria for a fortnight before the theatre goes dark. Films project into cinemas where paying customers fall asleep in the comfy chairs. A TV actor performs her big scene drowned out by the sound of thousands of hair dryers, vacuum cleaners and living room arguments. "All work is as a seed sown," wrote Thomas Carlyle. "Who shall compute what efforts have been produced, and are still, and into deep time producing?" 

'Many seeds are scattered, most fall on stones. Art is a dead letter with no name on the envelope, sent into the void. The fruits of creativity are asynchronous and asymmetrical - a suspended dialogue with the absent and yet to be born. All we can do is keep the faith that our lone acts of creation occur like the movements of flocking starlings or shoaling fish, in tandem with others, and that they will one day feed into the accumulated beauty and wisdom of the world. Every creative act joins in this eternal symphony of human life. Failure is the price we pay for our part in the orchestra.' 

Wow, in some perverse way, I find that encouraging. I'm still writing. Are you still doing your thing, whatever it is?