Book Review: 'Have You Seen Simone?' by Virginia Peters (No 7: True Crime)

Virginia Peters’ 2014 book ‘Have You Seen Simone?’ would be classified by booksellers as true crime but to say it is strictly in that genre would be incorrect. Unlike the majority of true crime writers, Peters does not have a journalist or police background: she is a mother and a fiction writer who, by her own admission, was led to investigate this 2005 Ballina crime after being haunted by the photo of German backpacker Simone Strobel pinned to the wall in her local café. The missing person poster caught her eye one morning over coffee:

‘Whoever had made this poster had kept it simple. A parent would have been more pleading, I thought. I wondered whose number it was – a friend’s? A lover’s? I went back to my coffee and paper, scanning the pages for news, only to find my eyes returning to the counter. There was something interesting about this girl, the vulnerability of her stance, the way her arms hung loosely at her sides’.

And so started Peters’ six or so year obsession with finding out how Simone Strobel had come to her death in a Ballina caravan park, possibly by asphyxiation but even that has never been clear from the autopsy examination. Like my previously reviewed ‘Murder In Mississipi’ by John Safran, this crime has never been resolved, emphasized repeatedly by Peters’ in the text, as recent litigation by Simone’s boyfriend Tobias Suckfuell (and suspect in the case) declaring defamation has hampered the release of the book. Much like Safran’s text, Peters’ is dogged in wanting to ‘solve’ the crime, as much as a writer can, and in fact, Peters’ is given much more free reign with witnesses and police files than Safran received from the US in his particular case.

The subtitle of this text, ‘The Story of an Unsolved Murder’ is telling given the use of the word ‘story’: this is very much a narrative of the author’s journey following the case rather than a strict retelling of a court case or police investigation.  We learn little about Simone, even very little from the conversations transcribed from Simone’s family after Peters’ takes the extraordinary move to travel many times to Germany to interview all the key players. Whether she was unable to get a handle on the true Simone, or whether it was not the main focus Peters’ wanted to take, it is not until the end of the book that Peters includes Simone’s last letter to her parents. It is poignant reading given that we are left hanging without any resolution to what happened to this lovely young woman.

Essentially, Peters’ journey is about finding her place as a writer, finding her place as a working woman after being at home for several years with three children, and it is also about being a daughter to her aging mother. The most heart-felt parts of the book are Peters’ interactions with her mother, who was the catalyst for attending the Strobel / Suckfuell inquiry in Lismore: Peters’ mother had always enjoyed attending court hearings in Sydney, taking her daughter when she was a teenager. Her mother acted as a sounding board during this investigation and like two amateur sleuths they nutted out over pots of tea possible motivations, wondered over inconsistent stories. At the inquiry, a court attendant asked after their interest in the case: ‘My interest? The word ssemed to connote some form of ownership or share, not the sort of interest that had nothing to do with anything. ‘I’m a student,’ I said. Then, noticing my mother had sidled up, I added, ‘And, um, this is my mother’. He gave a diplomatic nod, as if ‘mother and daughter’ explained everything.’

After also telling a reporter there that she was writing about the case, Peters felt committed and this book became her PhD creative writing project.

I felt the best writing in ‘Have You Seen Simone’ was Peters writing about the mother of the Strobel , Suckfuell and her own mother, who fell ill during the writing of the book:

‘I looked across and saw our two figures in the bathroom mirror, stooped awkwardly over her enormous tumour, our heads resting in the hollow of each other’s neck, an apex teetering on collapse. Up until then we’d been treating dying as a new and slightly macabre adventure on which we were both embarking. But now we were at the point of no return’.

Peters also reflects on her transition from writing short pieces drawn from her domestic world, to this larger scale human drama, and she shows insight into the interrelationship between fiction and non-fiction:

‘But real life didn’t work like fiction; after weeks working on a story based on my own experiences, I knew that better than anyone. Real life did have a predictability about it, an ordinariness that was totally unsuited to the twists of fiction. Consequently, the story I was writing – about a woman who was lost, in a metaphorical sense – was going nowhere, and it seemed trivial in comparison to this real situation unfolding in Lismore, where a girl was truly lost, and probably through no fault of her own.’

She is also unrelentingly honest about the more questionable aspects of her life during the writing of this book and I found her admission of petty resentments when dealing with an interpreter, naivety when dealing with Channel 7 producers who were also chasing Suckfuell, and her tension with her family as this case takes over her time, refreshing. The families of the Germans quite rightly questioned why Peters was so interested in the case: of Simone’s sister in law, ‘She was suspicious of me – she had every right to be, I realised, because even I was suspicious of me. Why the hell had I come here? I muttered something about the worthiness of my project, but with little conviction’. Certainly, Peters’ objectivity as an ‘investigator’ and writer were compromised during the years but she is frank in that regard:

‘No wonder that, as I sat down to write, I was feeling a little worried about objectivity, and concerned about how I could write my way out of this story. It didn’t help that my PhD supervisor had written me an email suggesting, as Cass Brennan had, that I might be writing my book through a veil of guilt, even though he’d not yet read anything I’d written’.

This is a hard book to pin down because I wouldn’t say it had enough substance in it to please diehard fans of the true crime genre but it was an intriguing book nonetheless and an interesting insight into a writer’s craft. As for Simone Strobel herself: it is clear that the incidents of extreme violence against women are reaching alarming levels in this country and she is yet another senseless tragedy in our recent history.

*This review is part of the Australian Womens Writers Challenge 2014

http://australianwomenwriters.com/

Book Review: 'Far From The Tree' by Andrew Solomon (No 6: Non Fiction)

The first reference I saw to Andrew Solomon’s ‘Far From The Tree’ was an excerpt on the ABC news app ‘The Brief’; Solomon was opening up the 2014 Sydney Writer’s Festival and speaking widely on this 2013 release on children, parents and the search for identity. After reading that small excerpt, I listened to Richard Fidler’s interview with Solomon (can be found here http://www.abc.net.au/local/stories/2014/05/20/4008150.htm) and I was so fascinated that I immediately went to buy a copy at my local Berkelouw store. Turns out I wasn’t the only one desperate to get a copy: apparently all copies were sold out at the Writers’ Festival and the shop assistant told me that a thousand copies were already on order Australia wide. This is worth mentioning as ‘Far From The Tree’ is about difficult topics, is six hundred pages long, and has a fair amount of academic research within the anecdotal material – not exactly a book you would expect to sell out in Australia. Let me explain why this has won awards, was a New York Times bestseller, and captured the attention of the Writers’ Festival folk.

Solomon spent ten years writing and researching this text, face to face interviewing hundreds of families across the ten years, and often becoming very close to parents and children alike. A lecturer in Psychiatry, a journalist and an author, Solomon started with a keen interest in the deaf community after writing a long form New Yorker article, and then moved on to exploring other cultures of challenged individuals to find commonalities in struggle for identity. Solomon’s scope was wide and he immersed himself in many cultures but ten groups became the focus of this text: the deaf, dwarfs, people with Down Syndrome, people on the Autism spectrum, people with schizophrenia, those affected by multiple disability, prodigies, children born from rape, children who commit serious crime, and transgender people. Solomon maintains pace throughout the chapters by using psychological and medical information to give background to a condition, and then interspersing interviews with parents and children to give voice to the reality of living with these conditions. The effect is both educative in providing a great deal of information about complex genetic and medical history, but also deeply affecting by highlighting the poignant daily struggles that accompany being different to the ‘mainstream’.

This is an easy book to read in that Solomon is an engaging writer combining a journalistic style with an academic mind; he is also an empathetic observer and interviewer. It is palpably clear in this warm collection of interviews that he cares for his subjects. At the same time, it is not an easy read for the content: I struggled with two chapters, Disability and Rape, as I found some early sections too difficult to read for the girief presented. The Schizophrenia and Autism chapters are also immensely heart wrenching.  In summary, reflecting on all the chapters: some people are almost given too much pain to bear, and the resilience they show in going on every day is awe inspiring. I was particularly riveted by the answers to the hard hitting questions asked of the interviewees: Solomon would ask parents if they would terminate if they knew then what they knew after caring for their child now, and whether if they could magically ‘cure’ their child or change the context in which they were born, they would. Answers varied, and answers were very honest. That’s what makes this such a compelling and important book: the voices are telling a truth that is often not allowed to be heard.

However, ‘Far From the Tree’ also offers so many moments of hope. I found this quote from Angelica (mother to Erica who has Down Syndrome), among similar quotes from others, profoundly moving: ‘Angelica had been deeply committed from the first to finding meaning in her experience, and she came to see Erica’s disability as an occasion for her own moral growth. When Erica was nine, Angelica developed breast cancer. “Having Erica made me stronger to deal with that” Angelica said. “I became a stronger person because of her.” Trinity Church is only a few blocks from Ground Zero, and Angelica was there on 9/11. She kept her cool in the midst of the chaos, and for that too, she thanks Erica. “God makes these things happen to us sooner rather than later, because maybe our role will be to help others and to grow from this experience” … “I couldn’t stop the planes from coming. I couldn’t stop my illness or her condition. You can’t stop the future”.

And this from Cheryl, mother to Clinton, when asked why her son had made such a successful transition from suffering from complications with dwarfism as a child to enjoying a full social and professional life: ‘"What did I do? I loved him. That’s all… Clinton just always had that light in him, and we were lucky enough to be the first to see it there’”.

And most profound of all, Sue Klebold, mother of Columbine shooter Dylan Klebold: ‘"But over time, I’ve come to feel that, for myself, I am glad I had kids and glad I had the kids I did, because the love for them – even at the price of this pain – has been the single greatest joy of my life. When I say that, I am speaking of my own pain, and not the pain of other people. But I accept my own pain; life is full of suffering, and this is mine. I know it would have been better for the world if Dylan had never been born. But I believe it would not have been better for me”’.

These are important stories to hear; a study like this should be mandatory for those currently in power in Australia who have been ruthless and despairingly short-sighted in cutting funding to the NDIS, mental health assistance, educational funding and medical research.  If only those people would listen and observe like Andrew Solomon, we might be moving to an even more caring Australia.

Book Review: 'My Salinger Year' by Joanna Rakoff (No 5: Memoir)

Joanna Rakoff’s memoir ‘My Salinger Year’ is a treat for literature lovers, and certainly for anyone who has read J D Salinger’s works. Not only is Rakoff an extremely engaging writer, as well as a thoughtful observer - she was also able to write an intriguing memoir by being in the right place, at the right time. Her first career job after graduating college was at a literary agency in New York, one she declines to name out of deference, but easily identifiable from its major client, the enigmatic Salinger. Surprisingly, Rakoff had never read ‘Catcher in The Rye’ despite being a literature major: it had just ‘passed her by’ in adolescence. However, she was well aware of Salinger’s reputation as one of the most famous recluses in the literary world, and the ‘Agency’ where Rakoff was now entrenched as the newbie assistant, had the task of collecting his substantial royalties and warding off any potential contact with fans or media. From the outset, Rakoff paints the Agency as a little piece of glamorous antiquity in the burgeoning digital world of the 1990s. On day one her boss breezes in like Meryl Streep in ‘Devil Wears Prada’: ‘As predicted, my boss arrived at ten, swathed in a whiskey mink, her eyes covered with enormous dark glasses, her head with a silk scarf in an equestrian pattern. “Hello”, I started to say, rising from my chair, as one might for royalty or clergy. But she swooped past me into her office, as if her glasses prevented peripheral vision.’ According to Rakoff, Salinger’s agent is distracted and aloof, constantly drawing on a cigarette, and determined to keep emails and ebooks at bay. In fact, Rakoff has to use an electric typewriter in the office and it is not until the end of her year at the Agency that one of the young agents persuades the boss to acquire one computer ‘to check emails’. Rakoff shows bemusement rather than contempt for the Agency’s ‘ye olde ways’, and I read it as a lovely homage to the way things used to roll in publishing. The exchanges regarding Salinger do not dominate what is essentially a coming of age tale for Rakoff, determining her path at those cross roads often met after college or university: the exchanges nonetheless reveal much about the recluse and are handled with a deftly humorous touch, ‘”Never, ever, ever are you to give out his address or phone number”. “I understand,” I told her, though I wasn’t sure I did, as I didn’t know who Jerry was. This was 1996 and the first Jerry that came to mind was Seinfeld, who presumably wasn’t a client of the Agency, though one never knew, I supposed’.

Rakoff touches upon so many relatable events in one’s twenties, well certainly mine anyway. Her nervous first day is reminiscent of most first days on the job: ‘The letters piled up on my desk and the hours clicked by. At 1:30, my boss put her coat back on and went out, returning with a small brown bag. When, I wondered, would she tell me to go to lunch? And was I meant to do the same? To buy my lunch and bring it back, eat at my desk? The outside world had come to seem like a dream.’

And her relationships have the arc of universality as well. Firstly, there is her changing relationship with her best friend Jenny, who has chosen the suburban path, to live out of expensive New York and forgo her dreams of writing to instead edit school textbooks. Rakoff replies to Jenny’s suggestion that to take the suburban path was easier: “’I know, “ I said reflexively, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to be normal. I wanted to be extraordinary. I wanted to write novels and make films and speak ten languages and travel around the world. I wanted everything. So, I thought, had Jenny’. Her relationship with her aspiring writer boyfriend Don moves the story along, and while we can see where it is all going, gives Rakoff scope to analyse her life in the memoir.

New York is the other character in this memoir and like any good piece, ‘My Salinger Year’ makes you want to experience the moments described in that exciting city: ‘One night in early July, at a rooftop party, I spent hours talking to two young New Yorker editors. They were a few years my senior – and a few Don’s junior – and dressed like characters from a Whit Stillman movie. They were, in other words, exactly as I’d pictured New Yorker editors, if I’d had the wherewithal to even imagine the people behind a magazine that had so profoundly shaped my life’

‘My Salinger Year’ is constructed exactly how I’ve come to like a memoir: a brief snapshot in time, dwelling on a life changing event or time period rather than a whole lifetime. It is a testimony to Rakoff’s writing that I cared at the close of the book what happened to her as she flashed forward to the present date. One hint - she has now read all of Salinger.

Book Review: 'The Prime Of Miss Jean Brodie' by Muriel Spark (No 4: Classic)

I saw this on the library shelf and was reminded of the many times I have heard and read Muriel Spark cited, and this in particular, her well known novel turned award winning film starring Maggie Smith. I knew the phraseo ft repeated in this classic, ‘in the prime of her life’ as it is used in common parlance, but I had never read the book nor seen the film, and in fact have never read Spark. It is such a neatly packaged short novel: a contained and precise concept. It economically outlines the formative years of a ‘set of girls’ and their primary school teacher, 40-something Miss Brodie, told in flashback and flash forward. Its arc is simple but surprising at the close nonetheless, and darkly witty. I appreciated all the nuances of this novel from my experience as a teacher, especially in a girls school, with the mandatory sets of ‘it girls’ who have the teachers’ favour and seem to run the show, leaving lesser mortals envious in their wake. The archetype of Jean Brodie is realistic, even today: the unmarried woman, strangely dependent on the affirmation of school girls, cagily critical of the other ‘by-the-book’ teachers, and as always, linked to the single males on staff. Likewise the girls’ delight in their imagining and speculation of Miss Brodie’s love life is a familiar thrill to many readers, just as seeing a teacher out of context at the shops and caught in their ‘normal life’, always so exotic to students. Spark writes so elegantly, and so knowingly: you feel her winking as you read these passages, and you can hear the wry laughter behind the words. She writes of poor Mary, the whipping girl of the group, so familiar a character to any school girl or teacher: ‘Mary sat lump-like and too stupid to invent something. She was too stupid ever to tell a lie, she didn’t know how to cover up’. Of Miss Brodie, we learn only snippets from the observations from the girls and the reaction of those around her, but her arch dialogue and continuous gasp at cigarettes paints a formidable and complex character: ‘Some days it seemed to Sandy that Miss Brodie’s chest was flat, no bulges at all, but straight as her back. On other days her chest was breast-shaped and large, very noticeable, something for Sandy to sit and peer at through her tiny eyes while Miss Brodie on a day of lessons indoors stood erect, with her brown head held high, staring out the window like Joan of Arc as she spoke’.

The novel is a glorious celebration of female group dynamics, female instinct, and observance of the dedication of a career woman rather than the pitying of an aging spinster: ‘Miss Brodie ushered the girls from the music room and gathering them about her, said, “You girls are my vocation. If I were to receive a proposal of marriage tomorrow from the Lord Lyon King-of-Arms I would decline it. I am dedicated to you in my prime. Form a single line please and walk with your heads up, up like Sybil Thorndike, a woman of noble mien”’.

‘The Prime Of Miss Jean Brodie’ didn’t feel aged to me at all: it had an urgency and a vitality that made it feel very much in the presence. Now, to see the much lauded film.

Book Review: 'Funemployed' by Justin Heazlewood (No 3: Non Fiction)

Justin Heazlewood admits himself in 'Funemployed' that the actors, artists, writers, comedians and musicians he interviewed often declared that discussing their experience of earning a living in the Australia arts industry with him was a 'bit depressing'. Indeed, reading about it is too, but only in the sense that as the reader I wished that every artist involved could win a big fat Powerball payout and never have to worry about paying the mortgage or rent again. Oh, what an amazing arts scene we could have then!
But don't let this put you off reading this great collection of thoughts and interviews, just as Heazlewood was not put off completing this project: it's an important examination of the pros and cons of working in a small national industry, and an absolute eye opener for those outside the sphere or for those hoping to enter it.
Heazlewood is a musician, comedian and writer, a 'mid career artist': after twelve years working professionally in the arts industry he has had some critical success, been on Triple J, made some royalties, but has never garnered a mainstream audience (he argues tongue in cheek that he is a 'share-household name'). He is the perfect person to write this book, having had a taste of commercial success but also knowing the depths of despair in negotiating Centrelink, losing money on self funded tours, struggling to find his niche, and pitching himself endlessly in the increasingly 'artist platform' driven industry. This is the great quandry upon which 'Funemployed' centres it focus: do you keep pumping away at something you are passionate about, not caring about commercial trends or marketing yourself as the next big thing, or do you just audition for X Factor. And teasing out that quandry, are you any good anyway, or should you just give up if you haven't made it by thirty and teach art or music to primary school kids (because that undoubtedly was what your loving but worried parents said should be your 'Plan B').
Heazlewood has access to the thoughts of well known artists such as Clare Bowditch, Tim Rogers, Benjamin Law, Lou Sanz, John Safran, Goyte, Tony Martin - as well as up and coming artists or less commercially successful artists who offer honest and fascinating insights into the trials and tribulations of taking the creative path. I was pleased to learn some new names and will do some research to find out more about their works - I hope other readers of Heazlewood's book will do the same, as if anything is to be learnt from 'Funemployed', support for our local artists is absolutely vital. He also interviews those that provide the business side of the industry such as publicists, managers and agents - they all offer valuable insights, particularly for those entering the business.
'Funemployed' had several chapters that really interested me: firstly, I found Heazlewood's personal account of what he termed the 'black cat', the envy of other artists getting ahead or seemingly having all the luck, very honest and relatable. Of course, any profession can relate to this somewhat, but unsurprisingly, many artists feel this envy deeply since success is so hard come by in the competitive field: 'In 2010 my bitterness hit new depths. My black cat dwelled on the injustices I was encountering - the parts of the industry that were intentionally shutting me out. There were always peers above me, clearly the 'chosen ones'.' This willingness to articulate what is on much of many minds is refreshing and should be encouraged more in public writing. Another interesting exploration was the Australian way of not big-noting oneself, thus hampering success at home, and certainly in the international market. Heazlewood argues that artists should be able to speak positively of their work and achievements, without fear of the tall poppy syndrome, but of course, as he quotes his fellow artists, it's a cultural more that is very hard to fight: 'Artists lie in fear of crossing the invisible line from'doing well' to 'doing too well'.' And on the dwindling support of arts in Australia, with only a few platforms to find coverage, I was astounded to read that the ABC received a dozen or so pitches A WEEK for comedy shows - but only have the funds to make one show a year (presumably it was Josh Thomas' turn last  year). As was noted by one interviewee in the book, in the small television industry with firmly entrenched 'star performers' you really have to wait for someone to die to get a spot. Bert Newton, you are  on notice...
Heazlewood has decided to make writing a focus for the time being and he has a very engaging style: a straightforward approach, personal without being cloying, and darkly humorous ('Artists are a clusterfuck of insecurities. When we're not trashing our own abilities, we're despairing what other people might think of us').
Two things I'll take away from 'Funemployed': stop feeling embarrassed by the measly royalty check from my novel, as I'm not Robinson Crusoe in that department. And, try to avoid being too consumed by what Heazlewood described as 'middle brow arts'. Once upon a time I went to small art gallery exhibitions and saw local bands playing at pubs, and read books by little known writers, and went early to see the support comic before the big name act. Yep, as we age we tend to veer towards the known quantity, to be conservative in our tastes. Guilty as charged. I'm inspired by Heazlewood to go back to the old ways and be shocked by the new and controversial once again.

Book Review: 'Only The Animals' by Ceridwen Dovey (No 2: Short Stories)

Firstly, Australian writer Ceridwen Dovey has a fabulous name. Secondly, she came up with a wonderful concept for a short story collection: her 2014 release of ‘Only The Animals’ has 10 pieces narrated from the perspective of animals who have lived and died during historically important events. The narrators include a camel spending a night by campfire with Henry Lawson, French writer Collette’s cat prowling the trenches in World War One, a bear trapped in a pit in Sarajevo Zoo during the war, a dolphin trained by the US Navy to detect and place mines during the Gulf and Iraq wars. Narrating from an animal’s point of view draws on a long tradition but the death of the animals due to their engagement in historical events - such as the wars, or being a ‘guinea pig’ on a space flight as does Tolstoy’s tortoise (‘Through the porthole, on the way to the moon, I saw the earth. It was just as the dogs had described it, a glassy illuminated marble’) or the runaway dog of Himmler, banished and left to fend for himself after showing a stranger more affection than his master – gives this a fresh twist on the concept.

The collection touches upon a great deal of big ideas, and the literary references are many: the dolphin narrates a letter to Sylvia Plath ‘By far my favourite parts of your journals and poems are the insights you share into the quicksand, joyous minutes and hours and days and weeks and years of mothering’ and a wonderful mussel caught at Pearl Harbour (surely one of the few mussel narrators in literature?) takes on the beatnik style of Jack Kerouac ‘Blue mussel larvae, the real drifters, latched onto our hull at some point in our journey. One of them grew into a real beautiful girl with golden threads who Muss had a diggy thing for but she was more interested in me’. Dovey shows thorough research of places, time, people and animal characteristics. Her style is formal, the language elegant, and there is much story telling within the pieces, such as the fables told by the animals of their ancestors. Some images are truly lovely, and poignant:  the elephants noting ‘We held a formal farewell ceremony before they left, making a ring with our bodies close together, breathing in the smell of our kin’;  ‘The black bear did not speak again. On an icy day at the end of October, he died with his paws wrapped around the brown bear’s ribcage, holding it close against his body’; and ‘As the sun begins to shade the sky a pale lemon, the soldier will return, shuffling on his stomach with the blinking tomcat tucked under one arm, both of them so covered in mud they could be two bits of the same mythical beast’.

However, as a whole collection I could put the text down and not feel the need to return quickly: I didn’t connect with the stories in their entirety but rather individual phrases and ideas. Reflecting, I wondered whether the collection was too clever for me, too full of lofty references. I don’t think that was the case. Then I wondered if it was the animal narrators - and I realised that I was not a great fan of animal narrators as a child. My brother loved ‘Wind In The Willows’ and ‘Fantastic Mr Fox’, and others of that ilk – but despite the fact that I was the more avid reader, I preferred the childhood stories with people at the centre of the action, and usually, pure realism. So perhaps while I fully understand the greater meaning of anthropomorphism, it may not be a style in which I can engage. It’s not you Dovey, Dahl, Grahame, Orwell – it’s me.

*This review is part of the Australian Womens Writers Challenge 2014

http://australianwomenwriters.com/