Month: October 2024

Monday musings on Australian literature: 1970 in fiction

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Once again it’s Karen’s (Kaggsy’s Bookish Rambling) and Simon’s (Stuck in a Book) “Year Club” week. This week, it is 1970, and it runs from today, 14th to 20th October. As for the last 6 clubs, I am devoting my Monday Musings to the week.

Despite the excitement and idealism of the 1960s, 1970 Australia was strongly conservative, politically speaking, with some notorious conservative leaders (like Joh Bjelke-Petersen, Sir Henry Bolte, and Robert Askin) being premiers of their respective states. But, there were exceptions. The socially progressive Don Dunstan became premier of South Australia during the year, and, while our Prime Minister, John Gorton, was a conservative, he was recognised as a supporter of the arts.

The war in Vietnam was still underway but was becoming increasingly unpopular. This was the year Australia decided to go metric for weights and measures, and, more relevant to this post, it was also the year that Germaine Greer’s The female eunuch (which I read the following year) was published.

A brief 1970 literary recap

Books were of course published across all forms, but my focus is Australian fiction, so here is a selection of novels published in 1970:

  • Jessica Anderson, The last man’s head
  • Richard Beilby, No medals for Aphrodite
  • Richard Butler, Sharkbait
  • Diane Cilento, Hybrid
  • Jon Cleary, Helga’s web
  • J.M. (John Mill) Couper, The thundering good today
  • Geoffrey Dutton, Tamara
  • Catherine Gaskin, Fiona
  • Shirley Hazzard, The Bay of Noon
  • Edward Lindall, A gathering of eagles
  • William Marshall, The age of death
  • Cynthia Nolan, A bride for St Thomas
  • Barry Oakley, A salute to the Great Macarthy AND Let’s hear it for Prendergast
  • Dal Stivens, A horse of air
  • Colin Thiele, Labourers in the vineyard
  • Ron Tullipan, Daylight robbery
  • Barbara Vernon, Bellbird (based on the ABC television series)
  • F.B. Vickers, No man is himself
  • Patrick White, The vivisector

A few of these writers are still respected and read today; a few are known but read less frequently; while some have fallen out of public consciousness (to my knowledge, anyhow!)

Of those I didn’t know, a couple caught my attention for their subject matter. F.B. Vickers is one. Trove describes No man is himself as “A novel set in the north west of Western Australia concerning an officer in charge of Native Welfare who is sympathetic to Aborigines but involved in personal difficulties with the white community and his wife.” The other is Edward Lindall whose A gathering of eagles is also set in Western Australia, and has a First Nations character. Google Books describes it as a “thriller set in the remote barren wasteland of north western Australia; an outcast Aboriginal woman, Ilkara, assists the survivors of a murderous plot to outwit their would-be killers.” The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction says Lindall was the pseudonym used by Edward Ernest Smith (1915-1978). He is also listed at a Classic Crime Fiction site.

Writers born this year include novelists Julia Leigh and Caroline Overington, and those who died include Herz Bergner (whose Between sea and sky I’ve reviewed), children’s fiction writer Nan Chauncy, Frank Dalby Davison (who was part of “the triumvirate” with Marjorie Barnard and Flora Eldershaw), and George Johnston.

There were not many literary awards, yet, though the state awards we know were getting close. And, several of the main awards made in 1970 weren’t to fiction. The ALS Gold Medal, for example, went to historian Manning Clark, and the Colin Roderick Award to Margaret Lawrie’s Myths and legends of Torres Strait.

There were some fiction awards, however, including of course, the Miles Franklin Award, which went to Dal Stevens’ A horse of air. The trade union-supported Mary Gilmore Award (my post on this award) was made to Keith Antill for Moon in the ground. It’s an Australian science fiction story set around the secretive Pine Gap near Alice Springs. The “$1,000 Rothman’s award for the best Australian novel of 1969” was awarded in 1970 to George Johnston‘s “semi-autobiography Clean straw for nothing” (from Trove).

The state of the art

As for previous club years, I checked Trove to see what newspapers were saying about Australian fiction. This was a little trickier for 1970 because, due to copyright, many newspapers from this time have not yet been digitised. However, some papers, most notably The Canberra Times and Tribune, along with some regional ones, have made their content available to Trove. To them I am most grateful.

George Johnston

Book cover

If one name loomed large in my my 1970 Trove research, it was George Johnston, and not just because he died in July. There were, of course, the obituaries, but, unrelated to his death, is his being used as a benchmark by commentators. For example, John Lleonart, reviewing Barry Oakley’s A salute to the Great McCarthy in The Canberra Times (8 August), has some “niggles” about the book but concludes that “Oakley has given us in McCarthy a classic figure of Australian mores to rank with George Johnston’s My brother Jack“.

Meanwhile, in discussions about the need for more Australian content on television, the television miniseries of My brother Jack was suggested as a benchmark for good Australian television content. Frances Kelly, writing in The Canberra Times (August 26), discusses the economic and artistic challenges to producing more “good” Australian content, and suggests one solution could be for Australia to

follow the BBC’s lead and begin work on adaptations. There are many fine Australian novels, which if we must still fly the flag, would bear dramatisation. My brother Jack was a shining example. 

The obituaries sum up Johnston’s career well – at least as it was seen at the time of his death. Maurice Dunlevy writes in The Canberra Times (23 July) that:

He had come back to his gumtree and kookaburra womb to find a new land, a people without a soul, and some uncomfortable ghosts from his past. “I would like to help Australians to find a new identity, a new soul, a new spirit”, he said on television. But to do so he had to sort out his own attitude to a country where he had left “the irrecapturable rapture of being young”. He was trying to do this in the third volume of the trilogy [A cartload of clay] during the past year.

Roger Milliss discusses Johnston at some depth in Tribune (12 August), concluding that

the important thing is the task that George Johnston recognised and set for himself — that of modernising Australian literature, of dragging it screaming into the 1970’s, of giving it a shape consistent with the world around it. That task must now be taken over by someone else — perhaps a writer who will emerge from the ranks of this new emerging generation.

These two obituaries make good reading if you are a Johnston fan.

Bookworm diggers

Meanwhile, over in South Vietnam, reported the Victor Harbour Times (May 29), Australian soldiers were well supplied with most amenities, but were running short of reading material. They had, says the report, “ample supplies of newspapers and regularly published magazines” but “novels, other books and paperbacks [were] in short supply”. Donations were being called for, and the Army would deliver them.

Australian classics

Publishers publishing classics is not new, but it’s always interesting to see “what” publishers see as those worth publishing at a particular time. In 1970, the Australian publisher Rigby published two Australian classics, Rolf Boldrewood’s Robbery under arms and Marcus Clarke’s For the term of his natural life, in $1.25 paperback editions. The Canberra Times (May 30), described them as “quite massive little tomes as paperbacks go” but said they gave readers “the opportunity of owning at a reasonable price two books that will be read and reread as long as Australian literature survives”. I love the qualification, “as long as Australian literature survives”. I wonder what the reporter thought might happen? Anyhow, these are still recognised “classics” but more have been added to the Australian classics pantheon since then.

While not quite making classics status, two other authors from the past were mentioned in the year’s papers. One was Communist Party member, Jean Devanny, whose papers were donated by her daughter to the University of Townsville. (I included her in my post on women writers and politics in the 1930s.) The Tribune‘s report (January 28) says that Jean Devanny had had more than 20 books published by Australian and overseas publishers. One of her best known, Sugar heaven (1936), is a novel of class and politics on the Queensland cane fields, and was published in the Soviet Union in 1968.

The other author, Vance Palmer (1885-1959), came from the same era, and while not a Communist, was left-leaning politically. By 1970, he was seen as old-fashioned, but Professor Harry Heseltine thought he was due for a reassessment, and published his Vance Palmer in 1970. I will share more about this in another post.

Censorship and Book Bans

“Australia is still the country of interfering and sometimes ridiculous censorship, but there are signs of vitality on the cultural scene” (Paris newspaper Le Monde, The Canberra Times, December 21, 1970).

The last book banned in Australia was Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s complaint. It was banned in 1969, but after protestations by booksellers and publishers, and two trials in New South Wales which ended in hung juries, the ban was lifted in 1971. In 1970, however, it was all still happening. There’s way too much reporting for me to cover here, so I’m just to entertaining references to whet your appetite.

The University of New South Wales’ student newspaper, Tharunka (April 21), devoted a special literary supplement to the issue, asking writers to comment on censorship. One was Thomas Keneally, who commenced his piece by saying he felt “uneasy contributing to a forum on censorship because I have never achieved banmanship”. He is tongue-in-cheek about the reasons for the ban, which had to do with its being a “dirty” book. Keneally doesn’t see orgasm as “the key to the vision of man”, and argues that “there is very little of less value to the novelist than a person enjoying himself”. Fair point! Nonetheless, despite his “spinsterish views on eroticism in literature”, he thinks the ban is “an embarrassment”.

Maurice Dunlevy takes satire further in his article “The Portnoy tug-of-war” (The Canberra Times, September 5). Do read it … And, for a more recent history of the saga, check this article by Sian Cian in The Guardian (February 2, 2022). She quotes Des Cowley, of the State Library of Victoria:

“There’s been a lot written about the whole saga with Penguin and the legal case, but a little part of that story is that a small group of people got together and defended the right of literature to exist. It is such a beautiful case because, in a way, it ushers in the change Australia saw between the 1960s and 70s, with the progressive Whitlam government, and going from a literary backwater to a world stage.”

I’m not finished with 1970 … but this post is long enough. I’d love to hear any thoughts you have about the year, or about the stories I’ve shared here.

Sources

  • 1970 in Australian Literature (Wikipedia)
  • Joy Hooton and Harry Heseltine, Annals of Australian literature, 2nd ed. OUP, 1992

Previous Monday Musings for the “years”: 1929, 1936, 1937, 1954, 1940 and 1962.

Do you plan to take part in the 1970 Club – and if so how?

Stephen Orr, Shining like the sun (#BookReview)

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A question that confronts many young people as they reach adulthood – in western cultures at least – is, should I go or should I stay? This is particularly so for young people in small rural towns, and is the issue at the heart of Stephen Orr’s latest novel, Shining like the sun. Wilf Healy, the oldest of three brothers, stayed in Selwyn which is now dying, while his brother Colin left for the bright lights of America, as soon as he could. Now eighty years old, the widowed Wilf is confronting the rest of his life, and he is again pondering the question, except he is not thinking of heading for the bright lights but for Louth, the island on which he grew up. The thing is, that island is empty. No-one lives there now. But this doesn’t dissuade Wilf from his dream. Meanwhile, his 17-year-old great-nephew Connor is about to lose his Mum to cancer and sees no life for himself in Selwyn.

That is the basic plot. Selwyn is a fictional wheatbelt town in South Australia – only identified because Louth Island is a real island off the coast. Selwyn has “three hundred people coming and going, dying, lost in the cracks”, plus one of those signposts pointing to far-flung places around the world. Wilf lives and works in Monk’s pub, delivers the mail (not to mention vegetables and pharmaceuticals) around the community, and drives the school bus, all because he can’t say “no” when yet another job needs doing. However, as the novel opens, he’s had enough. He wants to retire, but his plans to leave are half-hearted at best – and not just because of his sense of responsibility for his sick niece Orla and her son, the disengaged Connor. Why?

The three epigraphs provide a clue, but so of course does the story. We follow Wilf through his days, as he engages with the people of Selwyn, people whom Orr paints beautifully with a description here, a piece of dialogue there. Take young Connor, “an out-of-tune whistle that just needed a breath of air”, or Bobby, the 85-year-old vegetable grower and builder of a kit plane “who is too old to deliver vegetables, but not fly”. Take the school principal, Noah, for whom Wilf drives the school bus. He’s a weak man, who, when a certain crunch comes, cannot stand up for right. And take Wilf’s school bus passengers who are so entertainingly individuated from the opinionated Sienna to the JK Rowling-wannabe Luke, from the withdrawn Trevor to the entitled bully Darcy. The bus-rides are interspersed through the novel, providing perfectly pitched comic relief while also playing an important role in moving the narrative along. It is something that happens on the bus that triggers the novel’s main crisis.

But, Wilf and Connor provide more than two ends of the “do I leave” spectrum. Wilf’s reflections on his growing up provide a stark contrast to the lives of Connor and his peers. Wilf, of course, came from the often brutal “spare the rod, and spoil the child” era, when you did what you were told and expected little else, whilst Connor is growing up at a time when young people are not directed, but encouraged to find themselves. Orr does not judge either way, but lets his readers see and ponder how it all plays out in a life.

I opened this post on the question of staying or going, identifying it as the novel’s central issue – which it is. However, this is not the theme. Rather, it is the question which gives the theme its push. The theme, itself, is something deeper, something so fundamentally human that it could almost sound trite, except it’s not. I’m talking about the idea of community, of connection, of being where you are part of something bigger, where you can make a difference to the lives of others. This might sound schmaltzy. However, because Orr’s characters are fallibly human, and because the socio-economic challenges facing small towns (in particular) are real, connection doesn’t come easily. Shining like the sun, with its cast of authentic characters and array of specific, yet also typical situations, teases out whether this connection, this idea of community, can in fact still fly.

“the possibility of being happy” (Connor)

Orr’s intention? There is surely some political intent, some wish to convey the value and importance of these towns which are being allowed to die through neglect and poor policy (“farms flattened”, and so on). But, it is also personal in terms of exploring what sustains human beings the most – a fancy job or house? Or connections with your community? Mr Gums and I wait for the cliched “tight-knit community” which is unfailingly trotted out after whatever disaster (natural or personal) is on the day’s news. Like most cliches, however, it has an element of truth. A “real” tight-knit community is worth its weight in gold – another cliche for you. Orr knows this, so does Wilf. There is nothing romantic to this story, just real life with all its questions and toughness alongside moments of humour and mutual support in which, even Connor realises, there is “the possibility of being happy”.

Shining like the sun, then, is another special Stephen Orr novel. It is not fancy in voice or structure. That is, it is told third person – albeit a first person narrator opens the proceedings – and is told chronologically, with occasional flashbacks as Wilf remembers his past. What makes it special is the quality of the descriptive writing, the knowing characterisation, the authentic dialogue, and the serious but warm tone leavened by natural humour that comes from ordinary people going about their business.

I read this novel immediately after my return from touring outback Queensland. We saw many small country towns, most of which were variations on the theme. Orr’s story rings true to these towns. Indeed, to end on a cliche – because, why not? – Shining like the sun is a love letter to an Australia little known to its mostly urban inhabitants. It has much to offer on both political and personal levels, but, beyond that, it is just a darned good read.

Stephen Orr
Shining like the sun
Mile End: Wakefield Press, 2024
313pp.
ISBN: 9781923042278
Review copy courtesy of Wakefield Press.

Monday musings on Australian literature: Aussie Booker Prize listees

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Charlotte Wood, Stone Yard Devotional

In terms of the Booker Prize, it’s been a long time between drinks for Aussie writers. By this I mean that Charlotte Wood’s shortlisting for the 2024 prize with Stone Yard devotional, breaks the longest drought Australian writers have had in terms of being listed for the prize since its commencement in 1969. It has been eight years since longlisting and a full decade since shortlisting. This is probably largely due to the widening of the playing field in 2014 to include English language novels from any nationality.

This year’s winner will be announced on 12 November, but rather than wait until then, I’ve decided to share now the Australian books which have been listed for (or won) this prize because listing for this prize is a win in itself (even if it doesn’t come with the big bucks!) As Wikipedia shows, and the Booker Prize website confirms, longlists were not published for the Prize until 2001. The Booker Prizes website – particularly the year by year highlights – is worth exploring if you are interested in the prize.

Now, the order of my listing. While an alphabetical listing by author would make it easy to quickly see whether authors/books we love were listed, and how often authors have been listed, my main point here is to show when Australian authors/books have been listed, so, chronological it is.

Book cover
  • 1970 Shortlist (Lost Man Booker Prize*): Shirley Hazzard, The bay of noon (on my TBR)
  • 1970 Shortlist (Lost Man Booker Prize*): Patrick White, The vivisector (on my TBR)
  • 1972 Shortlist: Thomas Keneally, The chant of Jimmie Blacksmith (read before blogging)
  • 1975 Shortlist: Thomas Keneally, Gossip from the forest
  • 1979 Shortlist: Thomas Keneally, Confederates
  • 1982 Winner: Thomas Keneally, Schindler’s Ark
  • 1985 Shortlist: Peter Carey, Illywhacker
  • 1988 Winner: Peter Carey, Oscar and Lucinda (read before blogging)
  • 1993 Shortlist: David Malouf, Remembering Babylon (read before blogging)
  • 1995 Shortlist: Tim Winton, The riders (read before blogging)
  • 1997 Shortlist: Madeleine St John, The essence of the thing (on my TBR)
  • 2001 Winner: Peter Carey, True history of the Kelly Gang (read before blogging)
  • 2002 Shortlist: Tim Winton, Dirt music (read before blogging)
  • 2003 Winner: DBC Pierre, Vernon God Little (read before blogging)
  • 2003 Longlist: J.M. Coetzee, Elizabeth Costello (read before blogging)
  • 2004 Longlist: Shirley Hazzard, The great fire (read before blogging)
  • 2004 Longlist: Gail Jones, Sixty lights
  • 2005 Longlist: J. M. Coetzee , Slow man
  • 2006 Shortlist: Kate Grenville, The secret river (read before blogging)
  • 2006 Longlist: Peter Carey, Theft: A love story (read before blogging)
  • 2008 Shortlist: Steve Toltz, A fraction of the whole (my review)
  • 2008 Longlist: Michelle de Kretser, The lost dog (read before blogging)
  • 2009 Shortlist: J. M. Coetzee, Summertime
  • 2010 Shortlist: Peter Carey, Parrot and Olivier in America (my review)
  • 2010 Longlist: Christos Tsiolkas, The slap (my post)
  • 2014 Winner: Richard Flanagan, The narrow road to the deep north (my review)
  • 2016 Longlist: J. M. Coetzee, The schooldays of Jesus
  • 2024 Shortlist: Charlotte Wood, Stone Yard Devotional (my review)

* The Lost Man Booker Prize was made in 2010 to retrospectively correct a 1970/1 chronological glitch.

Only 5 writers have won the award twice, and one of those is Australian, Peter Carey. J.M. Coetzee, who is now Australian, has also won twice, and has been listed for the award four times since he moved to Australia from South Africa in 2002. However, his two wins, which I have not listed above, occurred while he was a “South African” writer.

Of the many Booker Prize controversies over the years, an early one involved Thomas Keneally in 1975, when the judges deemed only two novels worth shortlisting, of which Keneally’s Gossip from the forest was one. I am familiar with much of Keneally’s oeuvre (though I’ve not read a lot) but this one is new to me! The winner was the other (Ruth Prawer Jhabvala’s Heat and dust).

The most nominated Australian writers are:

  • J.M. Coetzee (6, if we fold in those two pre-Australian resident wins)
  • Peter Carey (5)
  • Thomas Keneally (4)
  • Shirley Hazzard (2)
  • Tim Winton (2)

The Man Booker International Prize was made biennially between 2005 – 2015 to recognise one writer for their achievement in fiction, and Australian writers have been shortlisted three times:

  • 2007 Shortlist: Peter Carey
  • 2009 Shortlist: Peter Carey
  • 2011 Shortlist: David Malouf

In 2106, this award came into line with the Man Booker Prize and is now made annually for a work of translated fiction. This will rarely include Australian books given the majority of our writers write in English. However, in 2020, Shokoofeh Azar was shortlisted for The enlightenment of the greengage tree (my review).

Any thoughts?

Six degrees of separation, FROM Long Island TO …

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When last month’s Six Degrees went to air, I was on holiday in outback Queensland. I have since returned from that wonderful trip, but am now in Melbourne for two weeks, catching up with family, including of course our two gorgeous grandchildren. I could do the grandmotherly thing and wax lyrical about what fun they are, but if you have grandchildren, yours will be just as much fun, and if you don’t, then, my stories will bore you very quickly, so let’s get straight to this month’s Six Degrees. As always, if you don’t know how the #SixDegrees meme works, please check host Kate’s blog – booksaremyfavouriteandbest.

The first rule is that Kate sets our starting book. This month we are back to books I haven’t read, this one being Colm Tóibín’s Long Island. I’ve seen (and loved) the movie of the first novel, Brooklyn, but haven’t read it or this sequel. I’d like to though!

Louise Mack, Girls together

I considered many ways to take this chain but in the end, I decided to go with the idea of a sequel. My link is an old Australian novel, Louise Mack’s Girls together (my review), which was published in 1898 and was the sequel to her novel Teens.

Girls together is about two friends, 16-year-old Lennie, who is at a point of transition in her life, and 18-year-old Mabel, who returns in the opening chapters from Paris and is training to be an artist. My next link draws on the idea of friendship between two young women. Nell Pierce’s A place near Eden (my review) is very different to Girls together, but the main friends here, Tilly and Celeste, are, like Lennie and Mabel, two years apart in age, meaning that from the start, Tilly is less experienced than Celeste – and she feels it. For the main part of the story, they are 19 and 21, and something happens, near Eden, for which Tilly is blamed.

Flynn Tiger in Eden

My next link is simple, obvious, so MR at least is sure to love it! I am linking, in other words, on title. The book is Chris Flynn’s A tiger in Eden (my review). It’s about Billy, “a thug-on-the run” in Thailand from his violent past in Belfast. He is, of course, the “tiger” in Eden, but there are more tigers to the story than just this.

A tiger also appears in my next novel, Fiona McFarlane’s The night guest (my review) which is about an older woman living on her own, the carer her children organise for her, and a tiger which starts to visit at night. As in Chris Flynn’s novel, there are layers here to the idea of the tiger.

The older woman in my next link has far more agency than McFarlane’s Frida who is, admittedly, in the early stages of dementia. The woman is the narrator of Sigrid Nunez’s essay-novel cum autofiction work, The vulnerables (my review). It’s the story of a woman who, in the early days of COVID and lockdown, takes on the task of pet-sitting a miniature macaw in a classy New York apartment, but finds herself sharing this role with a disaffected, opinionated Gen Z son of friends of the apartment owner.  An uneasy relationship develops between these two strong-minded people.

My last link is about another older woman and a younger man living in the same apartment complex. They become friends when he is locked out of his apartment, but their friendship happens rather more easily than Nunez’s pair because they quickly find points of connection. The novel is Michael Fitzgerald’s Late (my review). It is a “what if” story about Marilyn Munro spun through a story about Sydney’s 1980s gay murders. Late encourages us to think about who Marilyn might have been had she been allowed to be herself, and who her young gay neighbour might be if allowed to be himself!

So, we started with Kate’s book in greater New York, but moved very quickly to Australia, before popping over to Thailand, back to Australia, and then to New York again, before finally ending up in Australia. We’ve met tigers and thugs (not to mention a macaw), older women and younger men, and we’ve come across some interesting girl friends. We’ve met people to be trusted and some not so much. I hope you’ve been intrigued!

Now, the usual: have you read Long Island and, regardless, what would you link to?

Finlay Lloyd’s 20/40 Prize 2024: Shortlist announced

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And, the interesting literary awards keep coming. In November 2022, I announced the creation of the new 20/40 Publishing Prize by the local-to-my-region independent, non-profit publisher, Finlay Lloyd. A year later, in October 2023, I announced the inaugural shortlist, and soon after that, the winners, Rebecca Burton’s Ravenous girls (my review) and Kim Kelly’s Ladies’ Rest and Writing Room (my review). I am absolutely thrilled to see that the shortlist for this year’s award has just been announced.

But, before I get to that, a little explanation re my opening sentence. Like the Barbara Jefferis and the Mark and Evette Moran Nib Literary Awards, this award, too, has different and specific criteria, though in this case they are not so much about content as form. The 20/40 prize is a manuscript award with the prize being publication, neither of which criteria is particularly unusual. Further, it is not limited to debut or young or women or any other subgroup of writers, as some manuscript awards are. Submissions can be fiction or non-fiction, but must be prose (albeit “all genres … including hybrid forms” are welcome). What makes this award particularly special – to me anyhow – is that it is for shorter works, that is, for works between 20,000 and 40,000 words (hence the award’s name, the 20/40 Prize). The original aim was to make two awards – one to a work of fiction and one to nonfiction. However, last year the fiction submissions were so strong, said the judges, that both winners were fiction. Let’s see what happens this year …

And now, the 2024 Shortlist

Here is the shortlist, with a description from the announcement, plus further information I have found on the previously published authors.

  • Alicia Marie Carter’s Minotaur toes pulls no punches in taking the reader deep into the searing, visceral reality of the ensnared existence of a young woman, manipulated in prostitution: Carter is a writer, editor, teacher and podcaster who has had short stories, poetry and personal essays published in various literary journals, has won awards for her short fiction, and had a novel, Songs at the end shortlisted for the Penguin Literary Prize 2021.
  • PS Cottier and NG Hartland’s The thirty-one legs of Vladimir Putin spirits us away on a comedic journey into a world where the reality and absurdity of political power are increasingly indistinguishable: Cottier is a Canberra-based “poet who occasionally writes prose”, among other things, with an impressive body of work to her name; Harland is also a Canberra-based writer about whom I have found little except some references to prose writing.
  • Susan Saliba’s There is something that waits inside us empathetically explores the search for solace of a girl caught between the example of her high-achieving aunt and her eccentric, dysfunctional mother: Saliba is an English and Creative Writing Teacher, and an award-winning writer of young adult and children’s fiction.
  • Sonya Voumard’s Tremor shows us that beyond our societal expectations and judgements about normality, individual lives with disability can follow atypical, often difficult, but ultimately inspiring paths: Voumard is a writer and lecturer, primarily in non-fiction, who first came to my attention when she was longlisted for the Stella Prize in 2017 with The media and the massacre (which kimbofo reviewed from her won journalistic perspective).

Last year’s submissions were judged blind. This is not explicitly stated in this year’s shortlist announcement, but Julian Davies did say in an email announcement earlier this year that “Consistent with the ethos behind the prize, and last year’s guidelines, all entries will be read blind by the panel so that the quality of the writing guides the panel’s decisions rather than any extraneous influence”. I am clarifying this as I know it appeals to many readers and writers.

The judging panel for the 2024 prize comprised author Kevin Brophy (whose The lion in love I’ve reviewed), the publisher and author Julian Davies (whom I’ve reviewed a few times), author and poet Rashida Murphy, and last year’s winners, Rebecca Burton and Kim Kelly (aka Kim Swivel). The ongoing plan is for the previous year’s winners to be on the next year’s panel.

The winners will be announced on 26 October, just in time, again, for Novellas in November. The media release says, “it is intrinsic to a publishing prize that when the shortlisted entries are announced, the winning books are already in the final stages of being prepared for publication”. In other words, we should be able to buy them at the end of this month. Watch this space. I have so many novellas I want to read for Novellas in November …

It is heartening to see Finlay Lloyd’s commitment to their prize. I hope it continues long into the future.