Category Archives: Australian Literature

The Dry by Jane Harper


It wasn’t as though the farm hadn’t seen death before, and the blowflies didn’t discriminate. To them there was little difference between a carcass and a corpse…

The body in the clearing was the freshest. It took the flies slightly longer to discover the two in the farmhouse, despite the front door swinging open like an invitation. Those that ventured beyond the initial offering in the hallway were rewarded with another, this time in the bedroom. This one was smaller, but less engulfed by competition.

First on the scene, the flies swarmed contentedly in the heat as the blood pooled black over tiles and carpet. Outside, washing hung still on the rotary line, bone dry and stiff from the sun. A child’s scooter lay abandoned on the stepping stone path. Just one human heart beat within a kilometre radius of the farm

So nothing reacted when deep inside the house, the baby started crying.

And so begins the exceptional Australian crime debut from Jane Harper.  With a quintessentially outback flavour, and some common characteristics of a crime thriller: family secrets, teenage mistakes, country town prejudices, a gritty cop with a hidden past; the novel is never pedestrian or cliché.

In the small drought stricken town of Kiewarra, the community is reeling from the shocking Hadler family murder-suicide.  The thought that a decent bloke like Luke Hadler could have been driven to such despair and murder his wife and young son exposes just how fragile anyone out here in the dry really is.  He was one of them.

Police investigator Aaron Falk returns to Kiewarra to attend the funeral of his childhood friend Luke.  A city cop who moved away from the town as an ousted teen, Falk has intentions to stay just long enough to pay his respects, but Luke’s parents urge him to investigate the case.  Whilst the townsfolk are convinced this is an open and shut murder-suicide, pieces begin to unravel causing Falk and the local police investigator to doubt the facts before them.  Soon Falk finds himself trying to untangle two crimes that occurred twenty years apart; with Luke at the centre of both.

There is much hype surrounding Harper’s The Dry.  It won the Victorian Premier’s Literacy award for an unpublished manuscript in 2015.  Rights have been sold in over 20 territories.  There is to be an adaptation into a Hollywood film.  And all the accolades are deserved.

The storyline is a genuine who-dunnit – a classy crime debut that makes you feel scorn and secrets of a small town community, and scratch the sweat and grime of the outback heat from your skin.

In short: Incredible Australian writing; atmospheric, gritty and a proper mystery to the end.





Lost & Found by Brooke Davis

lost n fI recently had to tell my toddler that our beloved family pet had died. I was dreading the conversation, knew it would be coming soon. Our gentle beagle boy was very old, lived a rich and utterly spoiled life, but was riddled with tumours, and we expected it to be any day.

How do you explain death to a child without frightening them? Without confusing them, or, if I’m honest, inviting questions that I had no idea how to answer.

When I told her, I said ‘I have some sad news.’ Told her that he had died last night and that it was ok for us to feel upset because we will miss him.

“Will he go to the vet?”

“He went to the vet darlin, but he was too old to fix.”

“Will we still see him?”


“But I love him.”

And that was it. As a child, she was able to articulate in four words, the unfairness and grief of losing someone you love. As adults, we wrap grief in complexities, in conditioning and expectations of how we should feel. We then add remorse… or worse; guilt, and then try to follow a process that allows us to cope. But ultimately, aren’t we thinking the same thing as my little girl? But I love them. It’s not fair. I want to see them again.  

That childish insight is exactly what makes the book Lost and Found so breathtaking and so engrossing. Death through the eyes of pragmatic seven year old Millie Bird. Millie examines death with curiosity and naivety, and when her own father dies, and her mother abandons her in a shopping centre you will want to bundle her into your arms and take care of her.

It’s clever, it’s authentic, and it’s heartbreaking.

Soon Millie crosses paths with two older characters who are struggling to make sense of loss and love, just as much as their little counterpart.

Karl the Touch Typist is eighty seven when he farewells his beloved Evie, and his son kisses him on the cheek, leaving him in a nursing home. Seeking something else, he escapes the home to go in search of meaning and purpose.

Agatha Pantha is eighty two and has confined herself to her house since her husband died. She is eccentric and belligerent, hurling abuse at passers-by and complete strangers. Until she spies a little girl, obviously living alone in a house across the street.

The writing is perfection. You will slip comfortably into the Australian landscape, as Davis sets the scene with the nuances of our urban and rural culture. You will see Millie in your local shopping centre, see Karl clutching a coffee mug in a café you have visited, and hear Agatha screaming insults from a familiar home on a tree lined street in the ‘burbs.

Davis has created a tale that is both hilarious and healing. It makes you ask questions. It immerses you in each character, their memories and their discoveries.

Whilst the concept of loss is woven into each chapter, there is also an underlying theme of humour, self-reflection, and the intricacies of human interaction. It’s as much about living as it is about death, and at the heart of it all are three lovely characters; unlikely friends who take you on a moving journey to find Millie’s Mum… and something else.

In Short: Read with a lump in your throat and a smile on your lips.

Grieving for Dummies… or anyone really.

It’s been over two months since my last post, which has, of course, broken my resolution to write frequently and regularly. But I’ve been finding it hard to write something new. Something to push my last post down from the top of my feed. Somehow it doesn’t feel right to post a new reading recommendation that would sit atop my more important words for my late cousin. It seems flippant to bang on about a book that’s a ‘must read’ and relegate ‘Words for Lori’ a little lower on the page.

I’ve been trying to think of something to write that contributes to the below, which was written in grief, just before the funeral of Lori. A little time has passed, and the grief feels different, but it is still stubbornly there with no sign of abating.

And then I got this text message:

Phone message (3)

A reading recommendation from a group of bereaved parents (one of whom is my best friend, hence the explicit language.) They said the book has helped them with the unimaginable grief of losing a child. “It’s actually really therapeutic and funny too.”

The thing is, I already knew about the book. Lost and Found by Brooke Davis has caused a huge stir in the publishing world (which I am a part of). The author, Davis, was the talk of London Book Fair this year, and the rights to her debut title became the subject of a huge international bidding war.

In real life, the author’s mother died in tragic circumstances, and writing this book was inspired by her loss. In June, during her first media interview with Australian story, she said:

“There’s this idea that grief has a beginning and an end and with it comes all these buzzwords and concepts about stages of grief, like anger and denial and acceptance and closure.


“That way of announcing how grief should be makes everyone feels like they’re doing it wrong. And there’s no wrong way – it’s all right.”

So now I am reading her book.  I’m about halfway through, and it is utterly breathtaking…  (Review to come)

It’s made me think more about grief though.  Did you know there is actually a Grieving for Dummies book?  That may sound facetious, but I actually understand the demand for a title like that.  It’s hard to get a handle on grief, and to accept that it will be with you throughout life.  It doesn’t go away, it evolves. The pain of it, perhaps, becomes bearable with time.

Well, that’s my understanding of it anyway.  Yours is most likely different. 

When I was in high school, I had a friend whose father had passed away when she was much younger.  Occasionally she would miss a day of school, and I’d ask her if she was sick. “I’m just grieving for my Dad,” She’d tell me with clarity. Huh?  Didn’t he die, like, ages ago?

Looking back now I amazed that she was so mature, calm and at peace with her grief.  (She obviously has a remarkable Mum!)

And when I heard of the girls who recorded their late sister’s voicemail greeting, just so they could listen to her voice, I thought: ‘god, how torturous.’  But then I found myself trying to remember that same girl’s laugh, her voice, and our conversations: so is the recording in my mind really any different?

In our culture, we are taught about coping.  We value resilience, and courage, and a stoic nature.  We express our sympathy with floral tributes, and poems in the newspaper. In the media, a carefully placed tear on an interviewee’s cheek gets a zoom in.  If the grief becomes too confronting – think sobbing, snot, swearing… let’s break for a commercial while *subject name* gathers themselves.

Personally, I pride myself on keeping it together. So I was mortified at Lu Lu’s funeral when I FULLY snorted (think Daddy Pig) into the microphone while crying through a poem reading! (At least she would have found it an amusing sound!) But why did I feel like I had to ‘cope’ in front of a crowd?

It seems jarring when exposed to another cultural expression of grief on TV. Of screaming, and chest clutching, and falling to the ground while a body, wrapped in cloth is carried above an armful of relatives through dusty streets. Why does it seem so chaotic? Because their grief is not subdued or organised? Perhaps that is the truer way to demonstrate respect for the lost. To show it and let it consume you physically. I know in moments of sheer desperation, behind closed doors I have fallen to the ground. Overcome.

I have wanted to scream in the streets about the unfairness and sorrow. But I’ve been conditioned this way. So I don’t.

So I’m not surprised that Grieving for Dummies exists, because we try to identify the right way, the dignified way to mourn our loss. And everyone’s way is different, and it can be confusing.

The sneaky thing about grief is that it is often tied to other, more paralysing, emotions: guilt, remorse and regret. Until you process and move on from those hurdles, the healing really can’t begin. And don’t be alarmed when grief catches you unawares. In a moment you weren’t expecting to feel it, and there it stabs. Take a breath. Be kind to yourself.

cupcakeFor me, it is grief that makes me find a quiet spot, and share a cupcake with my memories on January 2 every year.  It is grief that makes me hate certain Beatles songs, and love others.  It is grief that gives me nightmares, or warming dreams of childhood games with all my cousins.  It is grief that makes me sip tea from the same special cup each weekend. It is grief that makes me love the smell of Nutrimetics lipstick, and it is grief that makes me hold my breath when looking at a dog collar hanging in the cupboard.

It is grief that makes me write this post, and read that book.


Post Script:

In the text message, ‘VSK’ refers to the organisation Very Special Kids, which provides respite and end of life care for families children with life-threatening illnesses.

To read more about Brooke Davis, see the ABC news article I have referenced here.

The site of the last execution in Iceland, where Agnes was beheaded.

Burial Rites by Hannah Kent

Burial RitesYet again a book has sent me falling down a rabbit hole.  I am fascinated, engrossed, compelled to find out more.  More about Agnes Magnusdottir, the last woman to be executed in Iceland in 1830. And here I am google imaging her, scouring Wikipedia, and historical records in search for an image, a grainy photo, a look at her handwriting or court records, or something more to put a face to the main character in Hannah Kent’s Burial Rites.

So powerful is this debut novel, that I feel as though I know Agnes’ intimate and innermost thoughts, and at the time of reading I felt the icy chill of the inhospitable country, the heartbreak, the indignity and isolation.

Of course I love a good piece of historical fact-ion; a reimagining of true events that occurred over 180 years ago.  After visiting Iceland as a mere 17 year old, Hannah Kent was inspired to research and interpret the life and execution of Agnes, who was sentenced to death for her part in the gory murder of two men on a desolate farm.

While awaiting execution, Agnes was housed in the rural home of an official, Jon Jonsson, and his wife and daughters.  In Kent’s novel, the family is horrified to have a murderer in their midst, and are scared and disgusted at times by her presence.  However, her sheer human-ness and vulnerability fascinates Jonsson’s wife Margret, and soon the family are conflicted by an unavoidable sympathy, and a begrudging like for Agnes the woman.

There are moments in this book that are truly breathtaking.  Details of the brutal murder emerge gradually, as do the hardships of Agnes entire life.  The end will have you utterly convinced that Kent was there, 183 years ago on that chilly hillside.  And a simple gesture made towards Agnes in her final hours will have you sobbing for its simple and divine meaning.

Kent spent much of her life planning and researching what is a remarkable and moving novel.  I am envious of writers like her: people who have the ability to pick away at facts, and find their own interpretation of a story.  But to tell that story with such truisms and authenticity that it is hard to dispute the reality of it.  So Hannah, I am supremely jealous of your talent, but moreover grateful that you have slaved away to perfect and deliver such a gem to hungry readers like me!

In Short: As crisp and breathtaking as the chilly landscape of Iceland.


Picture above: The site of the last execution in Iceland, where Agnes was beheaded.

Photo Credit:

Jasper Jones by Craig Silvery

Jasper-Jones (2)To me, reading a good piece of Australian literature is of equal importance to my cultural identity as Anzac Day, a beach Christmas, a day off for a horse race, and the smell of burning eucalypt.

I love when I read an Australian author and slip into the familiar landscape and scenery, the language and dialect, and the society and ideologies. Like being wrapped in a comfortable blanket, I’m home, at once. However, the good authors always manage to make that blanket just a little bit itchy at times, forcing me to shift position and think on what I am actually cosy with.

Craig Silvery has mastered the art, and it has taken me three months to digest this book and finally write a review. I’ve been mulling over it and chewing on the plot for ages because of the notion that this is close to the best book I’ve ever read.

Set in the regional mining town of Corrigan in 1965, Jasper Jones is a thoughtful, wise, coming of age story. It is heartbreaking, tense, hilarious and riveting.

On a hot, summer night, our reluctant hero, thirteen year old Charlie Bucktin is woken by an urgent knock on his window. An outcast in the country town, mixed-race Jasper Jones urges Charlie to join him outside and help him with a desperate situation.

Jasper had always been a boy who both intimidated and intrigued Charlie. The scapegoat for all the town’s mishaps, but stoic in the face of prejudice. When Charlie follows Jasper to a secret glade across the bush, he bears witness to a horrendous discovery. Forced to keep the secret, an unbearable weight on his shoulders and in his gut, he is thrown into turmoil as all around him the town and his loved ones erupt into fear.

What is so sophisticated and charming about the story, is that while there are horrible things going on in both Charlie’s life, and more broadly the town, he still manages to cope. To carry on like a normal teenage boy; love-sick and precocious, rude to his parents, and sarcastic and playful with his best friend. Perhaps it’s the arrogance of youth, but it makes it so real. It gives the character credibility: even though shit is going down, the rest of the world doesn’t cease to function.

One highlight for me, was the relationship Charlie has with his best friend Jeffrey Lu; an overzealous Vietnamese boy and Cricket tragic. The dialogue between these two made me feel as though I was eavesdropping on my little brother and his friends. So authentic and genuine, I was laughing out loud, falling in love with the wit and sharpness of their exchanges.

This story touched me on many levels. It has a solid and unexpected plot, believable characters, and a familiar but uncomfortable setting that gets under your skin from the first hint of summer heat, sleepless nights, and small town stereotypes.

In Short: Authentic and Amazing. A modern day classic akin to Harper Lee’s Mockingbird.

SPEED REVIEW: The Broken Shore by Peter Temple

the-broken-shoreA clever and compelling Australian crime novel that has all the hallmarks of an award winner. (Gold Dagger) I’d not read Temple before and found his style unique but comfortable, direct, sophisticated and implicit.

Set in a small country town, Homicide Detective Joe Cashen has been removed from his post in the big city of Melbourne to recover after a serious and scarring injury. Surrounded by small town cops, and challenged by corruption, racism and politics, he investigates the death of a wealthy local man.

The plot itself is fast paced, authentically Australian, with grit and an underlying ‘outback’ feel to it. Cashen, is incredibly likeable and understated, with many flaws and foibles. There is something stoic, bordering on heroic, about his presence.

In Short: Grimy and Genuine

The Light Between Oceans by M.L. Stedman

Light_Between_OceansI wish I had the discipline and dedication to write a novel. (And the skill and the plot ideas would also come in handy.) I think what I admire most about authors, is how they can take a simple concept; life, death, love, war, and then layer it with complexities, nuance and drama.

M.L Stedman’s first novel, The Light Between Oceans, is as good an example of that, as any debut I’ve ever read. And the critics agree, with tons of awards to its name.

Stunning and provocative, the underlying story is basic enough. A returned soldier with survivor’s guilt, a woman aching to know the love of a child, a family’s grief, and the operations of a remote lighthouse. However it is the events that occur, told in beautiful, poetic writing that complicate and give substance to the tale.

Set in 1926, Western Australia, the book is iconically Australian – steeped in our past and coastal culture of the time. I even learned some stuff about maritime history.

Tom is a lighthouse keeper on a remote island, Janus Rock. It’s a blustery and isolated existence for him and wife Isobel, the only inhabitants of the environment. They see other folk just once every six months, and they live a quiet and simple life; filled with love, and the everyday practicalities of running a lighthouse.

One morning, a boat washes up on shore carrying a crying infant, and a dead man.  Years later, the consequences of their actions that day unravel, as the truth about the baby is discovered.

As you consume the pages, it is clear what the likely outcome may be. But it’s still surprising, provocative, and absorbing. It’s unsettling to decide what outcome you actually want. I found myself pensive, hours after putting down a chapter, considering the characters, and what I might do in their position.

The writing style is lovely and engaging. Each character has flaws, but is worthy of your empathy is three dimensional and interesting.

This book broke my heart in many ways. I admit I couldn’t enjoy every moment because reading it was emotional and exhausting. But it’s also immersive, and confronting. A story where the lines between right and wrong become so blurred that they almost look the same.

In short: A stunning debut that asks ‘what would you do?’

The Secret Fate of Mary Watson by Judy Johnson

secret fateRemember in Primary School, when the theme for the term was Australian History?  You learnt all about Captain Cook, convicts, bushrangers and the gold rush.  If you were like me, you were fascinated by all the morbid details; death by scurvy, being gaoled for stealing bread, and the fact that teachers could dish out corporal punishment – ‘the strap’ was both terrifying and intriguing. The idea of a wooden school desk that opened from the top was tantalising, and the leather boots corsets and petticoats were even a bit princess like.  Did you get an old fashioned sepia photo from a pioneer settlement tourist park?  “No smiling children, no one looked happy in the olden days.”ye-olde

There wasn’t much reference to indigenous history, really.  Many of the ‘natives’ died of the flu (much like the allusive dinosaur) and they carried spears, boomerangs and women weren’t allowed to play the Didge. Oh, and there was the painting lesson where you broke up rocks and mixed them with water to create a new graffiti tool.  And during play-lunch, amateur pyros would try to start fires by rubbing sticks together; delighted and nervous squeals from the girls ensued.

Despite the gaps, I loved Australian history then.  I still do.  And so I loved this book.

The Secret Fate of Mary Watson is a compelling tale. Fiction mixed with historical events, mystery underpinned by actual journal entries from the late 1800s.

In 1879, 19-year old Mary Oxnam fled her family home in Queensland.  She was plain, penniless and alone, but had determination, independence and a feminist wit I didn’t expect to come across for the era.

Mary finds a job as a pianist in a Cooktown brothel, while her intelligence and stealth land her a lucrative, but dangerous, side-job as a spy. Embroiled in smuggling, espionage and a dirty trade for her day job, the tale is gritty and thrilling, and far from you typical history lesson.

All the characters Mary encounters are shady: it’s clear that she’s in danger – no matter who she’s siding with – but she knows it, which makes her both frustratingly risk taking, and remarkably brave.

She marries a brute for convenience and soon moves to Lizard Island; remote and crawling with all sorts of enemies – both natural and human. 

Her time on the island is intense and suspenseful.  Her living conditions are squalid.  Her marriage is quite revolting.  Her emotions are palpable and the rugged desolate environment is described as both threatening and beautiful.

Based on actual journal entries written by our heroine, the author has presented her own interpretation of Mary’s events which are speculative while compelling, heart wrenching and bleak.

An amazing and creative insight into a little known aspect of our history. 


In short: typically Australian, bleak and beautiful.