Carolyn Tétaz

The Stone Ship is Peter Raftos’s first book, and one of the first three books released by Sullivan’s Creek, an imprint of Pandanus Books. The Sullivan’s Creek Series ‘seeks to explore Australia through the work of new writers, with a particular encouragement to authors from Canberra and the region’ and ‘aims to make a lively contribution to scholarship and cultural knowledge’. Raftos, ‘a web developer, an academic-in-training and a journalist’, lives in Canberra and works at the Australian National University. His novel, set in an imagined time and place, doesn’t so much explore Australian universities as the absurdity of all universities. As for ‘a lively contribution to cultural knowledge’, I’m not sure what that looks like, but The Stone Ship reminded me of Terry Gilliam’s wonderful film Brazil (1985). Both are set in a ‘retro-future’ ruled by huge, incomprehensible bureaucracies, whose only work seems to be perpetuating their systems and inflicting arbitrary cruelties on unsuspecting and trusting citizens.

First novels should be the hardest to write but, among writers, second novels have won that reputation. Second-novel syndrome can be identified by: obsessional mourning for the cocoon of anonymity; consuming self-doubt; chronic false starts; acute self-consciousness; the need for constant reassurance; and a low-level frustration brought on by mandatory participation in literary festivals.

Spinning Around is reminiscent of Allison Pearson’s I Don’t Know How She Does It (2002), the story of Kate Reddy, a full-time fund manager who also juggles a husband, a nanny, and two young children. The voice of both novels is confessional and conversational. Both use existing brand names as descriptors, employ time as a structural device – Jinks uses days, Pearson, hours – and end with a quick summary of a brighter future illuminated by enlightening experiences. They also open with very similar sentences and sentiments (Jinks: ‘How did I ever get into this mess?’ Pearson: ‘How did I get here?’), and in each novel there is a daughter named Emily, a younger son and a helpful, slightly hopeless husband with less earning power than his wife. It’s hard to tell if this is evidence of the genre’s inherent features, the ineluctable truth of the situations, or a happy coincidence.

Marion Halligan’s latest novel should be a success. It is a continuation and concentration of themes, characters, and settings that have consistently engaged her in a considerable body of work. The Point is full of Halligan favourites: food, art, love, literature, hubris, Canberra, Séverac, and the Spensers. It is a novel with currency, exploring the IT industry, the business of food, and the perceived distance between those with and those without. Halligan has a reputation as an intense and original writer, but The Point is a disappointing novel.

Being out of print is like moving back in with your parents – it’s not usually a sign that things are on the up. But fortune’s wheel turns with scant regard for merit or effort, so it must be a relief for writers when their publishers decide to ‘celebrate their continuing contribution to Australian literature’ with a re-release of their back catalogue.

On the front cover of Wendy Orr’s new novel, we are advised: ‘This [book] is a treat for fans of Tyler, Wesley and Trollope.’ Apart from any predisposed posed feelings you may have for the work of Anne Tyler, Mary Wesley and Joanna Trollope, this small sentence is a useful positioning statement for the potential reader.