Susan Green

More reading about reading. Last week I finished How to be  a Heroine;(Or, What I’ve Learned from Reading Too Much) by Samantha Ellis and it got me thinking about the heroines of my childhood. A reader, a bookworm, living much of the time in word worlds, I naturally pictured myself as the heroine of my own story. Doesn’t everyone?

No, apparently. Years ago I made some horrible vain remark to the effect that I was glad I had my ankles are slim, for no heroine ever had thick ankles.
“What on earth are you talking about?” said my friend. She thought I was weird. “Heroines are in books. They’re not real.”

My reading project is still to read something old and something new, but some of the old ones will come from my childhood reading because I’m interested in those heroines that helped form me. This week I re-read Little Women.

First published in 1868, it’s an antique. So is my copy – pictured to the left, with cover and many lovely illustrations by Shirley Hughes. It’s the one I first read when I was around 10 or 11. I wondered if I’d find it unreadable, but I just gobbled it up, finishing the whole thing in two or three sittings. I found the language easy and readable, the characters engaging – especially Jo, of course.  It’s sometimes funny, sometimes touching, and a wee bit sentimental. I shed a little tear when Beth defrosted old Mr Laurence next door and when she caught scarlet fever. The baby died in her arms! And of course Jo, with her intelligence, ambition and wild, coltish energy, is a living, breathing delight. But…

Yes, there’s a but. According to Ellis, it’s ‘unbelievably preachy.’ She reckons that every page ‘is rammed with endless, intrusive moralising’, and writes that ‘I never realised before that in Little Women, each March sister is tamed, one by one, part from Beth, who doesn’t need taming because she is a personality-free doormat. Which apparently is the ideal.’

Not quite. The ideal, stated by Mr March when he comes back from the war, is ‘a strong, helpful, tender-hearted woman.’ But I agree with Ellis that there IS lots of very explicit moralising. The Pilgrim’s Progress is mentioned over and over as the model for life’s journey.

Alcott has chapters that deal with Meg’s (pretty harmless, actually) vanity, Jo’s willfulness and temper and Amy’s selfishness. Beth, who is pathologically shy and at 14 still plays with dolls, is quiet, sweet and helpful, but even she gets a harsh lesson when Marmee decides to teach them that all play and no work is no fun either. No one feeds Beth’s canary, and she finds it ‘dead in the cage, with his little claws pathetically extended, as if imploring the food for want of which he had died.’ A bit harsh, Marmee!

What makes Little Women (and many other 19th and early- to mid- 20th century children’s books different to most published today is that Christian morality is front and centre.

But then, I read somewhere that Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series was really one long Mormon tract on sexual abstinence.

Who would have thought there were so many books about reading? It’s a whole genre. Reading a particular author – you could probably have a sizeable shelf devoted to reading the works of Jane Austen. Or reading just one book, like The Road to Middlemarch by Rebecca Mead, which was about reading – well, Middlemarch. I remembered reading it when I was in my 20’s. It seemed like a wonderful, huge, whole world of a novel, one you could live an entire life in, and I loved it. Lots of characters, lots of storylines, happy endings and tragic endings and paragraphs. Phrases that have stuck in my mind for 30 years. Like the one about the squirrel’s heart.

If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.

Now, read that again. Isn’t it amazing?

I’ve never re-read Middlemarch, but after reading about reading it – Rebecca Mead’s book was beautiful, moving and thoughtful –  I decided I would. And I’m ashamed to say that I couldn’t. I couldn’t say exactly why. Perhaps you can’t go back again. But the thing is, and I’m almost ashamed to admit it – I really enjoyed reading about reading it.

Which led me on to Howard’s End is on the Landing: A Year of Reading at Home by Susan Hill. Hill, author of The Woman in Black amongst 37 published books, decided that for a year she would read only the books that were already on her shelves. Books she’d read once and forgotten; old favourites; books she’d never read at all.

I wanted to repossess my books, she writes, to explore what I had accumulated over a lifetime of reading and to map this house of many volumes… A book which is left on the shelf is a dead thing but it is also a chrysalis, an inanimate object  packed with the potential to burst into new life.

I’d actually read Middlemarch, but many of the books Hill wrote about were known to me only by the titles. She compiled a list of 40 books, the ‘Final Forty’ she called it. Ignoramus that I am, I’ve only read 8 of those books. I’ve read 22 of the authors, but still…! A self-improvement project looms – or does it? Because there are always so many new books to read, too. New novels, new authors.

This is the time of year in a bookshop for new releases – as publishers hope that everyone wants to give and get books for Christmas. At the bookshop where I work, boxes of them keep arriving day after day so that the whole place is stuffed full of newness. I fear the publishing industry is like a dying tree, producing reckless amounts of blossom and fruit, one last fling at survival.

I don’t have a house of many volumes like Susan Hill, but I do have a floor to ceiling bookshelf in my study that’s stuffed to overflowing. There are old favourites, yes – but would do they bear re-reading? And there are many, many that I’ve never read. Will I ever read the collected poetry of Robert Browning? Or The Vicar of Wakefield by Oliver Goldsmith, or Lavengro by George Borrow? I still have so many books that  belonged to my mother. Classics, mostly. Plays and poetry. She read them, every one. Perhaps, next year, I might give Susan Hill’s project a try. A modified try. Say, two a month from the shelves. One I’ve never read, and one I want to re-read. That doesn’t sound too daunting, does it?

I’ve spent all morning in the garden. Perhaps I’ve done a bit too much for someone with a dodgy back, but I’ve had a wonderful play with rocks, dirt and plants. I’ve wheel-barrowed and planted; I’ve lugged pots and loads of gravel; I’ve neatened a garden bed and it’s imposed instant order and calm, rather like making the bed in a messy bedroom.

It’s a beautiful time of year to be doing these things. I’ve missed spring so far, because I’ve been chained to my desk  with the third Verity Sparks book to finish. But as of last night at 11pm, when I pressed ‘SEND’, I’m (temporarily) released. My morning’s play was unhurried and guilt-free.

The painting is called ‘In a Shoreham Garden’, and it’s by an English artist called Samuel Palmer. I’ve known it since I was little, because there was a reproduction in a book of my mother’s. It was an anthology of words and pictures called A Book of Delights. I couldn’t read but I could look, and I kept turning the pages back to this. The tree exploding with frothy blossom is spring. It’s release and joy and delight. There’s nothing like blossom. Except, perhaps, that burst of golden wattle at the end of winter.

It’s all over so quickly. A couple of weeks ago, the last of the plum blossom blew off in the wind and lay in drifts like snow all over the back courtyard. Now there are teeny little red plums among green leaves on the tree. Soon the birds will be ripping and shredding the leaves to get to the fruit.

But today there is still apple blossom on the tree in the back yard. And roses beginning to bud and bloom, and some opium poppies slyly splitting their pale green pods. All in a Castlemaine Garden.

As you can see from the pictures, Stonemans Bookroom in Castlemaine – the place where I work – is not your standard bookshop. That’s what customers seem to love about it. Almost every time I work, a visitor says how unique/amazing/untidy we are. Locals seem to feel we are a treasure or at least worth supporting. Last week a visitor from the UK asked if she could take photographs.
“Why?” I asked. “Surely you’ve got shops like this at home.” (In my imagination, the UK is full of delightfully cluttered, eccentric, old-fashioned bookstores)
She shook her head and snapped away, saying, “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Today I helped author Deryn Mansell launch her first novel, Tiger Stone. It was a warm and happy occasion, held in the foyer of the Castlemaine Library, with a large contingent of Deryn’s family and friends there to help celebrate. Here’s the talk I gave.

Deryn wrote Tiger Stone while studying Professional Writing and Editing at RMIT. She told me when we talked last week, that on freezing cold Central Goldfields mornings, catching the early train to Melbourne, she would go in her imagination to the steamy Javanese jungle of her story. Quite a feat of the imagination if you think of those frosts. Deryn knows Indonesia and Java in particular, very well. She’s been visiting there for over 25 years as a student and a teacher. She went to university in Jogjakarta, and has worked as a teacher of Indonesian in schools for many years. She now works with the Asia Education Foundation, furthering the role of Asian languages and cultures in Australian schools.

Until a few weeks ago, I didn’t know that Deryn and I lived in the same town. We’d both attended the same Walker/Black Dog Books conference in Sydney, but there were a lot of authors and illustrators present, and we didn’t meet on that day. However when Deryn walked into the Bookroom where I work, she recognised me – and asked if I would help launch Tiger Stone. Launching a first novel is a special and exciting experience, and I was flattered be asked.
I hadn’t known anything much about Tiger Stone. I’d seen the cover at the conference, and I knew the book was set in Indonesia in the 14^th century. A place and time I knew almost nothing about. Then Tiger Stone arrived in the mail, and when I began to read it, I didn’t want to stop.  It wasn’t just that it was a good, tricky mystery with two very engaging main characters. The pages were opening onto a time and place I knew nothing about…and that was exciting.

You know that feeling when you go somewhere you’ve heard about but never been before? Say, a small town whose name you’ve seen on a map or a signpost. Well, you get there and lo and behold, there are people going about their lives, there are houses and buildings and landmarks and rocks and trees and a whole small world just going about its complex intertwined life… And now you know it exists and your world is enlarged.
Reading can do the same sort of thing. I told Deryn this when we talked last week. I said that I thought reading Tiger Stone enlarged my world, and that it’s a great thing. It’s a gift.

Growing up, I only learned about European history. Kings and Queens of England, the Wars of the Roses, the Battle of Waterloo, that kind of thing. Even though I’m an Australian, we didn’t do a lot of Australian history. A smattering of explorers was about it. The children’s novels I read were English or (a minority) Australian. The parts of the world geographically nearest me – South East Asia – were not even on my radar. I did learn Indonesian in high school, but our teacher was a Scot (I can still hear the accent) and we learned little or nothing about Indonesian history and culture. I wish I’d had a teacher like Deryn! I think that this book can be not only generally just a good read for children in years 5,6 and 7, but also a good addition to any Indonesian language or cultural studies. Having a sense of a long, rich, eventful, colourful vivid history stretching back in time would have made me a more enthusiastic Indonesian student, I’m sure.

Deryn’s made Java in the time of Tiger Stone as full of drama as anything happening in Europe. Only no heavy velvet and fur, no suits of armour. The Battle of Bubat – in which the fictional Kancil’s father was killed – was a real event. Two Royal families – the Majapahit and the Sunda – were supposed to be united by marriage, but on their way to the wedding, the Sunda royal family were ambushed and killed. A bit like Game of Thrones? That violent past forms the background to Kancil’s story…and I’m not going to give too much more of the plot away, except to say that it’s a cracking mystery.

Along the way, I learned so much about Kancil’s world. I commented to Deryn that reading Tiger Stone, I could feel the heat, hear the monkeys in the trees, smell the hot cooking oil in the kitchen and the jungle dampness. I particularly noted the smells. I got to learn about social hierarchies in the village, the different ways language can be used, the brewing of medicinal herbs, the traditions around weddings…

As I said before, I’ve learned about a new world. Apart from anything else, that’s fun. But there’s another, more serious, aspect to it. I often find myself defending my trade – fiction writer – to people who say things like “Truth is stranger than fiction” or “Why bother reading made-up stories when the truth is much more interesting?”
The great thing about fiction, I argue, is that you can enter, imaginatively, right inside someone else’s world. Their thoughts, feelings, memories, observations. Through Deryn’s heroine Kancil I could hear and see and smell an existence I’d never even bothered to think about before. 14^th century Java. A refugee, hiding her true identity because of hostility and mistrust. A lowly kitchen girl, a poor relation, living on charity in a rich uncle’s house in a village. Scorned and mistreated by the other servants. Lonely and isolated. Trying to care for her grieving and sick mother. Learning who to trust; making friends with a surprising ally.
Reading Kancil’s tale, I got to exercise those muscles of imagination and sympathy. Essential muscles, I think. Without them we can think that ours is the only reality.

IN the second week of August I took a walk and photographed the first wattle. It’s always out around my husband’s birthday. It looks so fluffy and golden and soft at first – then it gets bashed around by the wind and sodden with rain. But it’s a sign of what’s to come, and I know that winter is nearly over. On the same day, I saw jonquil spikes pushing up through pine needles, and the hyacinth starting to come up through its potting mix.

When I took a walk today, the wattle was still out, the hyacinth is in full bloom and so are the jonquils. It was warm and sunny and it felt good to be outside. It’s nearly spring!

There’s been no blogging for a while because I’ve been incapacitated – I had to have five stitches in my right hand because of a misadventure with a sharp knife in the kitchen sink. It was a Lady Macbeth moment with much blood dripping from my outstretched hand. I had the stitches out last week, but because it is such a deep wound it’s taking a while to heal so it’s still criss-crossed with steristrips. I can type rather slowly now, but until recently it’s been left hand and one finger at the keyboard. There’s also been no knitting, little gardening, very ordinary cooking and a bare minimum of housework. It’s the most excitement I’ve had for ages, but not in a good way.

I’ve been wanting to comment on some lovely letters I got in the mail a couple of weeks ago. In mid-June, I did two days of workshops about writing history at a girl’s school. I had great fun, and it was good to find out that the girls enjoyed the sessions too.

Not only that, but they began to think about writing stories of their own. Some of them sent me brief outlines of their stories and descriptions of their characters, and I was impressed at the range of ideas. Even though my talk was about Verity Sparks, who lived in inner city London and Melbourne during the the Victorian era, some of the girls were inspired to imagine other times and places. The piece of advice I gave to them was ‘Think yourself into somebody else’s world’ – and that is what they have done.

Maeve, for instance, began to imagine a 10 year old  girl with an absent European father and an Aboriginal mother in the early 20th century. Her mother is imprisoned so she goes in search of her father. There’s a strong ‘Stolen Generation’ theme, and it’s a great set-up for a story with lots of tension and conflict and heart. Maeve might need to do some research…and perhaps she might find a book called Follow the Rabbit Proof Fence by Doris Pilkington Garimara in her school library. It’s a true story. There’s also a film on dvd called Rabbit Proof Fence.
Christine’s story idea involves Annette who loves sailing and the sea, but has a traumatic accident and loses her memory. The story of how her character regains her memory – and perhaps manages to sail again – could almost be a detective story, especially if Annette only gains little fragments of her past at a time, and has to try to piece them together. If I were writing the story, I would probably tell it from the girl’s point of view and accentuate the ‘missing’ pieces of the puzzle – that would ramp up the mystery. A very promising idea.

Isabella has begun a story set in the future. It has a strong science fiction element, with a science corporation developing  powerful serums which, injected into the population, can wreak havoc – or activate special magical abilities in children. What’s good about Isabella’s idea is that she’s chosen to concentrate on one girl’s individual journey in this strange new world. That means the readers can experience the future through her experiences.
Laura has planned a story about an ordinary girl in extraordinary circumstances  – her character is washed away by a freak wave and ends up (with her little sister) on an island. Lots of opportunity there for the ‘ordinary’ child to discover how strong, resilient and brave she can be as she protects her little sister and keeps them both safe. Do they get rescued, or does she work out a way to get off the island? I wonder.

Because I was speaking about historical fiction and the Verity books in particular, some of the other girls  in the class imagined themselves back in the late 1800’s.
Ruby’s The Life of Victoria the Pickpocket starts with a very convincing description of the way a pickpocket watches and listens and observes the way people walk along the street…in order to successfully rob them! She’s chosen first-person narration, which is a great choice – you can really hear Victoria talking to you.
Margaret has set up a family story – her heroine has three sisters and they all must help their mother and father with the family business, selling food from a street stall. With so many fictional orphans around, it’s nice to have an intact family for a change! Mia has made her fictional family very poor, so there is plenty of opportunity for an engaging storyline around their united struggle to survive and make a better life for themselves.
Juliet’s story centres on the maid in a rich household. She is only 12 and wishes she could be free to play and have fun like wealthier children.  Her father is dead, and the rest of her family – mother, brothers and sisters – all work as domestic servants in the city. It’s a good situation and Juliet can really highlight the inequalities of the Victorian era if she shows the contrasts between the lives of rich family and her character. I wonder if she will find a way for them all to be together again. Perhaps they could all go to work on a farm… As city children, there could be lots to learn and a few adventures along the way.

Courtney’s beginning is very engaging, with lots going on. Young Mildred, a servant girl, starts hearing voices in her head. It’s very disturbing – so how can she get help? Who can she tell? Who can she trust? She doesn’t want to be sent back to the orphanage… I wonder how Courtney will solve the mystery of the voices.

Anna’s story takes the poor family situation and gives it an extra twist. Margaret’s parents have died, leaving ten children. As the oldest, Margaret has to look after them all. What a lot of responsibility. Anna could have lots of fun with all the different personalities of the children – perhaps there could be a cheeky one, a dreamy one, a clever and studious one… I would definitely include a couple of naughty siblings to keep the story lively.

And finally Mikayla’s begun a school story (I really enjoyed writing the Hightop House section of Verity Sparks Lost and Found). Friendships are so important and the boarding school setting gives  lots of opportunities for exploring what can go right and wrong among groups of friends.

So many stories, so many ways to write them! I have been working hard on the 3rd Verity Sparks novel, and at the end of this week, I will start work with my editor on the final version. After the editing process is finished, there’ll be a gap of time before it’s released in 2015. But before it’s out in the shops I’ll be working on another novel. The ideas are already percolating because I never feel quite right without a story on the go. With Verity all edited and out of the way, it’ll be time to dive into somebody else’s world again.

Mrs Miniver lived in an unimaginable world of privilege – though I’m not sure that’s how Mrs Miniver would have seen herself. I think author Jan Struther meant her to be an ordinary middle-class housewife. Yet she had a nanny for her two youngest children, a son at Eton, a country house with a married couple to look after it, a car and a cook and a housemaid. Her observations on the joys of ordinary life – the everyday small happinesses, the flitting fleeting beauties of the mundane world – are lovely, even moving. They’re sensitively, beautifully, minutely described moments of  everyday life and routine.

Not that she didn’t enjoy the holidays but always felt – and it was, perhaps, the measure of her peculiar happiness – a little relieved when they were over. Her normal life pleased her so well that she was half afraid to step out of the frame in case one day should find herself unable to get back. The spell might break, the atmosphere be impossible to recapture.

I’ve never seen the film, but as I read I did have Greer Garson’s perfect face in mind as she manages to be brave and beautiful at the same time, keeping calm and carrying on in the face of bombs and blitz, gas masks and austerity. Not that there is much donner und blitzen in the book. Getting fitted for gas-masks, taking in evacuees, I did note that Mrs Miniver muses several times that the British are going to war against a Government or a civilization, not a nation.

I have a Tasmanian-born friend who collects instances of Tasmania equated with The End of the Earth/Utmost Darkness/Doom and I did find an instance for her in the book.

Mrs Miniver woke up one morning with a sense of doom, and knowledge that the day contained something to be dreaded. It was not a crushing weight, such as an operation, or seeing one’s best friend off to live in Tasmania; nor was it anything so light as a committee meeting or a deaf uncle to tea: it was kind of welterweight doom.

What I remember of the book is not Mrs Miniver’s stiff upper lip. It is a picture of her sitting in her beautiful drawing room, surrounded by beautiful personal objects…and ringing the bell for tea.