The author’s a RCNR and wants to form a support group. I reckon I’m a bit of a one too. I’m fairly okay with my own, but over the years I’ve had great issues with my beautiful lady’s. It’s the colours you see. She likes grey tones – and so it seems do most of the rest of the population. On occasions I’ve been sent to deposit or collect and that’s when the RCNR thing hits me. It has done so to the degree that I have at times found myself attempting to break-in and enter. So for a serial RCNRer like William McInnes and those as far along the spectrum as he is, it’s a terrific move that the wordsmith-come-actor is considering. I may join as an associate member.

As one may readily discern from his current work in ‘Rake’, the star of stage and screen is no longer the epitome of manliness that gave Laura Gibson the will to live again after the departure of Diver Dan in the iconic ‘SeaChange’. He’s still picking up roles, but is no longer leading man material. He’s the first to admit this, as he does several times in ‘Fatherhood: Stories About Being a Dad’. Maybe writing should become his main gig in light of that, although, in terms of memoirs, it is hard to imagine that there are many more guffaw inducing tales from his life remaining to tell. His first collection, ‘A Man’s Got to Have a Hobby’ (2005) was a cracker. ‘Holidays’ (2014), together with 2016’s ‘Full Bore’, were not far behind. In this one he tells many more, often self-deprecating, yarns, but there seems now much ‘boofheaded’ philosophising as filler.

McInnes never takes himself too seriously and regales us with delightful memories of teaching his kids to drive, their errors producing ‘the underhand of involuntary self-protection’. Then there’s the explaining as to how, at his stage of life, one goes about engaging in a sex scene with a comely actress for television. Perhaps it’s the one on display in the latest season of Cleaver Greene’s misadventures – not a pretty sight. He riffs on sunsets, the delicious taste of the much maligned mullet and the confusion that can come when he is repeatedly mistaken for fellow thesps Ben Mendelsohn and Noah Taylor by the punters. Once he was even mistaken for himself, a hilarious recollection. It reflects the downside of being both writer and actor. In the tome are also included the touching missives he wrote to both his offspring on the completion of their secondary education. He also recalls some more of the crazy characters he met during his formative years growing up in Queensland. Not the least of these was his own father, so prominently featured in previous publications. He writes on death and dying before informing us that going orienteering is perhaps not the best cover for having an affair.

No book of the non-fiction variety from this Aussie larrikin can be passed up by me, even if the laughs were not as forthcoming as previous efforts. Perhaps they are even more precious for that.But now, getting back to being a Recidivist Carpark Non-Rememberer, it is worth noting that Leigh and I are about to head, at time of writing, to the Gold Coast, scene of our worst case of echoing the proposed founding member’s exhortation of frustration, ‘Who designs these bloody carparks!’ Our story of a lost car in the vast expanse of the Pacific Fair parking facility will serve as my opening gambit to apply for membership. If that’s not enough, there’s the time I opened a door to a sedan and proceeded to sit in the passenger seat, only to discover there was a young lady aside me who, indeed, was not my Leigh. There are, added on, the countless times I’ve attempted to open the boots of vehicles that, on closer examination, were patently not hers. I think joining my fellow RCNR is a given.

White Houses – Amy Bloom Leah on the Offbeat – Becky Abertalli

‘Under our breasts and in our creases, we smelled like fresh baked bread in the mornings. We slept naked as babies, breasts and bellies rolling towards each other, our legs entwined like climbing roses. We used to say, we’re no beauties, because it was impossible to tell the truth. In bed we were beauties. We were goddesses. We were the little girls we’d never were: loved, saucy, delighted and delightful.’White Houses’- Amy Bloom

‘I just look at her. I just can’t believe I’m allowed to do this. I can just stare at her face without it being creepy. I want to memorise every inch of Abby – the shine of her cheekbones and the brightness of her eyes. There are tears in her lashes and her cheeks are sort of puffy. I don’t know how this girl can go from laughing to crying to kissing and back, and still come out of it looking like an actual moonbeam.’ ‘Leah on the Offbeat’ – Becky Abertalli

Such tenderness.

It goes without saying that it can’t be easy to come out and for centuries it had to be hidden. That’s still a necessity in many, many countries – but thankfully, here and America, despite Abbott and Trump, it has become a non-issue as far as the law is concerned. Not that it makes announcing it to friends and family any easier as a result.

Of course, in mid-C20th America, the setting for ‘White Houses’, the option wasn’t there for either gender, but I suspect the authorities were tougher on the males. Naturally, getting away with it was much easier if you were the wife of the President. As stated, the FLOTUS was not the beauty, in the classic sense, she was in her youth by the time of her liaison with the lover in this semi-factual tome. But then, nor was that lover – although the latter blamed that on the unflattering photography of the era. Not that attractiveness is in any way important, except in that perhaps plainness doesn’t conform to male fantasy. In any case hubby, POTUS, was in a semi-open relationship with his secretary and those in the know, including the media, turned a blind eye. Wouldn’t happen in this age of shock-jocks and gutter media. In that period the White House kept its secrets closely guarded, including FDR’s paralysis. Eleanor was a much admired figure, even loved, by the general public; noted for her good works and lack of airs. Compare that to today. The two led separate lives – maybe that’s still relevant – and Mrs Roosevelt’s close companion, during the years Bloom is writing about, was former journalist Lorena Hickok. Despite the crowded first lady’s schedule, the couple do find time to be intimate.

The pair are from entirely different backgrounds – possibly accounting for the mutual attraction. Hick’s early years were hardscrabble with an abusive father. She ran away to join the circus in her teens, losing her virginity to one of the ‘freaks’ on display at a time she was fast discovering she had a way with the written word. That leads to her career – a career that had to be curtailed when she became too close to a powerful woman.

The novel is told in a hard-boiled style from the lover’s perspective. Most characters are historical, but there are a few invented ones such as Parker Fiske. He loses his cabinet position due to his sexual proclivities, perhaps pointing to a few double standards.

This reasonably short novel is a compelling enough read, leading one to delve to deduce fact from fiction by sussing out other interpretations of the same tale.

Fast forward to the present and the YA book by Becky Albertalli (who found fame with ‘Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda’), ‘Leah and the Offbeat’. This story is as contemporary as can be. I suspect its target audience will rush to it as they obviously did to the first novel, heightened by the fact that Simon is also a character in this.

Leah is in her final year of high school, is a drummer in a band, is definitely not one of the in crowd and is potentially a talented artist, although the latter is kept well hidden. She is also coming to the conclusion that it is not only boys she is attracted to. In the heady weeks leading up to the prom Leah’s support group is fracturing over a racial comment by one of her cohort. It’s offended her to the core, although it was directed at another. Leah is outwardly feisty and opinionated, but inwardly torn between the lad who’s taken a fancy to her and Abby, the hot girl who is everything, it seems to her, she is not. As the group decide on their college options Abby and Leah are drawn together, especially once the former dumps her jerk boyfriend.

As a read for a sixty-something fella, this wasn’t usual fare, but it carried me along to the end well enough. But girls of a certain age, as well as a discerning lad or two, will love it, as evidenced by the gushing but wholeheartedly felt positive reviews on-line. And if it helps even one young person struggling with their sexuality – well then, despite being a cliché, it’s worth it’s weight in gold.

Amy Bloom’s official site = http://www.amybloom.com/

Becky Abertalli’s official site = https://beckyalbertalli.com/

On a trip away to Mangoland I spent a few most pleasant late afternoons with Harvey Beam, resting up from forays to the scenic temptations of the Tweed and Byron Shires. He was terrific company, even if he had come down in the world.

I discovered that, since gaining a foothold in big city radio, he had progressed to being the king-pin of the breakfast slot. Even then it was much to his father’s disgust. He was earmarked for far, far better than that tawdry profession. All this Harvey confided to me those sunny afternoons.

Nothing lasts forever for any of us – not prime time nor life. Eventually Harvey’s ratings decline and he’s shunted to the sleepy afternoon slot, a new sycophantic, fawning and golden-tonsilled brekkie host is unearthed with old Harv starting to feel he’s on a downward slippery slope. And then, to cap it all off, he’d recalled to Shorten, the country town of his upbringing. Here his disapproving old man is gravely ill. On arriving his dad doesn’t want to know him and his brother’s being an arse. His two sisters, to add more to his woes, are cat fighting like there’s no tomorrow. Back home his daughter decides this is the time to have a major crisis and Harvey confides it’s all getting a bit too much.

It sounds dire, but there’s an up-side. He can take a breather and re-calibrate, he tells me. En route he had also met Grace and that may amount to something too. And then, guess what? The local radio boss offers him a time-slot. Could this be a blessing in disguise?

Is Carrie Cox the new Nick Earls? Her style of writing reminded me of the Sunshine State’s scribe at his best. Needless to say, then, I revelled in ‘Afternoons with Harvey Beam’. Earls has been around for quite a while now, but Cox is only starting out. The Perth wordsmith has several other publications under her belt, but this is her first novel. Stick at it young lady. You’ve all the attributes.

One afternoon I was about to doze off when Beam confided to me that his nick-name within the family was Pencil. It took a while for the penny to drop. Harvey Beam. HB. Get it? Clever one that.

An interview with the author = https://www.betterreading.com.au/news/qa-with-journalist-turned-author-carrie-cox-talks-about-her-novel-afternoons-with-harvey-beam/ =

I’ve had a life-long love of sand – beach sand that is. For most of this life I’ve loved disporting myself on it, soaking up the sun half-naked till scare campaigns and age put an end to all that hedonism on my part. These days I perambulate along strands rather than being supine. My island is blessed by stunning beaches – and right now I am close to two of the best – Boat Harbour and Sisters. But there’s wilder sand too. Dune Sand. Coastal dune sand, at places such as Henty on the West Coast and Boobyalla up the North-east, is formed by wind into ever-moving nature-built monoliths. The latter was a favourite of my father as he explored, foraged and hunted around those parts, entranced by its wildness.

Now we have a novel about a fellow who himself spent a life time in studying such dunes. He concentrated on how to control their steady march to prevent valuable land and infrastructure being submerged. Now this may seem dry fare, to say the least, as the basis for an engaging read, but in the hands of Gregory Day it becomes enthralling. His talent as a wordsmith first came to my attention in his previous tome, ‘Archipelago of Souls’, set on another wild place, King Island. So I knew he could make this arid subject matter come alive. I was not let down. I loved it. It will no doubt be one of my reads for the year.

FB Herschell was a minor engineering functionary for the Victorian Country Roads Board of Works, operating out of Geelong in the 1960s. He was tasked to stablise the sand dunes on a section of the Great Ocean Road. To garner the best knowledge possible, as to how to go about this, he successfully applies to go to Paris to consult a leading expert on sand shifting, as well as to visit a major project in the south west of France. The year he embarks on his fact finding mission is significant – 1968. As fate would have it, in the City of Love, he meets and falls under the spell of Mathilde, a student revolutionary. She just happens to hail from Arcachon. It’s in the heart of the dune country he is about to visit, near the ginormous Grande Dune du Pyla, the most massive in Europe. Of course marram grass is the answer there, as he expects it to be back home. Its suitability in Australian conditions becomes a bone of contention later in the book.

But what happens to his love affair with his captivating, but conflicted, young lady? I’ll only say she is not the woman he spends his later years with back in Oz. In his dotage he realizes his life work has had only minimal impact on the planet for he had, ‘… sat, year after year, in the McKillop Street (Geelong) office, attempting to widen the parameters of sand. He well understood the public purpose of these activities, but there was a private universe in them as well. And in that private universe was a city of his imagination, where the tall elegant gates of the Jardin des Plantes slowly opened onto a humid darkness.’

Paris played large in his remaining days as FB composed a summation of his endeavours, ‘The Great Ocean Road: Dune Stabilisation and Other Engineering Difficulties’. But, in the between the lines of the parched sentences he wrote on the topic, in this rarely read small publication, are the clues that provide the basis for this sad, joyous, poetic and erudite rendering from another mind capable of ‘…bravura work’. It is lovely, just lovely.

The Sydney Morning Herald’s review of the novel = https://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/books/a-sand-archive-review-gregory-days-novel-of-the-consolations-of-a-solitary-man-20180712-h12l02.html

Worthy. That’s the best description of Wilson’s novel. It was a worthy winner of last year’s Miles Franklin. It will never be looked back on as a great winner, but there’s no doubt of the author’s worthiness in turning a collection of words worth our while perusing. This tome, unlike many other winners of the prestigious award, had not been purchased but passed on to me. The words my writerly daughter used were, ‘You’ll enjoy this.’ She knows. I did.

There is a worthy trend in British film making at the moment, with many of their great thesps getting on in years, to produce for us in the older demographic. Usually they are fairly mushy, but nonetheless enjoyable for that. They are tales about falling in love again when that was felt something for earlier decades. Cite the ‘Marigold Hotel’ duo and the more recent ‘Hampstead’. There’s numerous others. Also, some ponder on the meaning of love itself at our age. ‘Extinctions’, the novel, constantly reminded me of, not an English speaking movie, but the Swedish gem, ‘A Man Called Ove’. A curmudgeon is softened by a female influence.

And Fred, in ‘Extinctions’, has Jan for this – maybe. A tragic event has bought them together, even though they’re next door neighbours. Fred’s life has been marked by misfortune – the passing of his wife; the accident causing his son to be in high-dependency care. As a result Fred has retreated to a retirement village, pulling his past behind him to wait out his own extinction. He is going to stew in his own juices, but Jan attempts to jolt him into action, to get him into gear. It is, without giving anything away, a transformed Fred we have at novel’s end – but transformed in a positive way?

Frank’s previous work was high in academia, in the field of concrete no less. Oh dear, we might all sigh, but there’s more to cement than meets the eye. Design fascinates the old fellow and in the past he has collected significant examples, some of which he cannot bear to part with as he downsizes. He drags them into his gated community.

Jan also has a tale to tell about her life. She can see what Fred could be and doesn’t give him an inch. His daughter has a back story as well. She’s affected by her origins and has temporarily escaped to England.

No, there’s little lovey-doveyness to be had here like those Brit cinema offerings. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t light – and perhaps, just perhaps, a few second chances as well.

I didn’t intend to read the book straight away. It was described as America’s ‘Narnia’. I hadn’t ever read any of the that esteemed series and I’d already earmarked a local great’s latest as next on my list. ‘Wildwood’ was with a number of tomes my beautiful daughter had handed over to me in the expectation that I would enjoy them. I usually did, but ‘Wildwood’, on initial appearances, didn’t appear to be my thing. Besides, it was hardly newly published, dating from 2011. As well, it was long. Anything over 500 pages, for me, is long. It would take me forever to get through. Nup, it looked suspiciously like a non-starter.

Meanwhile, Katie had also been telling me about a new, to her, band she had discovered that she also thought I’d enjoy – the Decemberists. And I did, when she sent me a link to them. She informed me that the lead singer, Colin Meloy, was also quite the wordsmith, as songwriters have to be. He had also tried his hand at writing novels and had had a few published. She was currently reading one and would pass it on when she had completed it. Initially I didn’t make the connection when she handed it over, in amongst a collection of other tomes, further down the track.

So I put ‘Wildwood’ aside, thinking maybe I’d get to it one day, when I’d finished some more pressing titles.

Last week I was about to start the Winton, but beforehand had a look at Katie’s pile. Flipping through ‘Wildwood’, I was struck by the illustrations it contained – retro gorgeousness. They were akin to something from my own childhood. When I sought out information about the illustrator, Carson Ellis, turns out she is the author’s wife. Then the penny dropped. That guy was the Decemberists’ front man. Well that was worth reading the first few pages for. I’d get a feel for it before tackling ‘The Shepherd’s Hut’. Then I was hooked, wasn’t I? Tim W would have to wait.

I did enjoy ‘Wildwood’ very much. It was a real page turner and I was through it in less than a week. Good going for me. Meloy has struck the right chord (hum) with a style suited to his target audience. The tweenies, I suspect, would immediately be attracted to it. He doesn’t pander to them – he sets challenges as far as the language he chooses is concerned. It also had this ancient adult enthralled. It was a lively narrative of daring-do in an alternate world where animals can talk and live on equal terms with the human inhabitants. Eagles and owls, to my delight, play a prominent part. Our lead girl, Prue McKee (adore the name), is a feisty construction from Meloy. She is determined to save her baby brother from evil forces after he had been stolen from our world by a murder of crows. I was particularly drawn to Prue’s offsider, Curtis, who found himself embroiled in the girl’s adventures all because he indulged in a bit of harmless stalking. He’s a real nerd hero.

It’s a wonderful collection of principalities invented for us in the Impossible Wilderness. Katie, you handed me a ripper. Thank you.

The Wildwood Chronicles’ site = http://www.wildwoodchronicles.com/