Maybe it’s because I’m off Twitter, but I haven’t seen too much discourse about the Booker prize this year. I’m thinking about the years in which people whined about too many debut authors, because this shortlisted book struck me as very “debut-y” – or maybe it’s just me. 

Two trusted reviewers, the hosts of Novellas in November, who chose this book as a buddy read, don’t feel that way. Cathy found this story of a grieving eleven-year-old girl coping through a newfound love of squash, deep and satisfying:

“The narrative arc of Western Lane has all the staples of a standard Hollywood movie: rising from tragedy through sport, a romantic love interest and a thrilling climax of competition, but Maroo presents this recognisable story with a restraint and insight that elevates it beyond cliché.”

Rebecca found it illuminating in terms of “what is expected of young Gujarati women in England; on sisterhood and a bereaved family’s dynamic; but especially on what it is like to feel sealed off from life by grief”.

Rather than write a comment on their blogs about why I disagree, I thought I’d better review it myself. But I find that I can’t refute their points! The things I found trite or formulaic, they found “accessible with hidden depths” (that’s Rebecca.) I agree that the lack of “stylistic flair” (Rebecca again) is effective, and becomes a style of its own through repetition of certain metaphors. I just didn’t like the metaphors. 

My issue isn’t with any individual scene, or the style, but with the structure of the book as a whole. I felt like I could see the plot outline underneath the finished product, like if I could go back to an earlier draft, I’d see a note:  “insert squash metaphor here.” In fact, all eight chapters begin with a squash metaphor. They were well written, but to me, utterly obvious in what they were meant to convey about grief, and after the first few chapters I was sick of them. 

Had the writing not been restrained (as per Cathy,) this could have been a disaster. In between sports metaphors and the family members alternatively falling into or resisting gender and birth order roles, there were quietly powerful moments, some even illuminating. I gasped at a pivotal moment, when the young protagonist makes a decision that seems out of character, but actually reveals a lot about how grief and family turmoil have affected her. But even this moment makes me feel like I can see a ghostly Google doc comment like “put an obstacle in the character’s way before she gets to the final battle.”  

Cathy and Rebecca aren’t the only ones giving rave reviews. Canadian author David Chariandy calls Western Lane “a book of simmering intensities, reverberating silences, and exquisite literary timing.” This is an apt blurb, as his debut novella Brother touches on similar themes of grief, sibling relationships, and second generation immigrant experiences, with an overarching metaphor (music in his case). In my mind, Chariandy’s book was much stronger, as the structure wasn’t visible to me. Nothing felt repetitive or forced, and the musical metaphors, which I suppose were as obvious as the sports ones in Western Lane, were revealed at just the right moment to create a very emotional reading experience. 

But as my mom says, there’s no accounting for taste. We’ll find out what the Booker judges think soon enough!

I expected this novella to land as lightly as the cover treatment – like diffuse and gentle morning light. It hit me more like a bright midday sun beam.

It’s a rare book that conveys the frustration, boredom, and drudgery of early motherhood without veering into gross-out humour or sentimentality. I don’t relate to any of the particulars of this story – I became a mother in another millennium, on another continent, and by the time my oldest was turning three, I already had another baby – but the parent-toddler struggles, at the park, at a festival, at daycare drop off, during middle of the night wake ups, are instantly recognizable.

The Story of My Life is the short nonfiction pick for Novellas in November. As always, please refer to Cathy and Rebecca for more thorough reviews.

I was briefly obsessed with Helen Keller as a child. Is this still a phase girls go through in elementary school? There was one book in particular that I read over and over, maybe in grade three or four. I don’t know which book it was (plenty to choose from), but it wasn’t this one.

I was taken with Helen’s childhood: the illness that left her blind and deaf, the wild tantrums of her early years, and her sudden awakening to the world on the arrival of her teacher, Anne Sullivan. So taken that I “borrowed” a few phrases from whatever book I was reading and used them in an assignment, and got called out by my teacher. My memory is not as good as Helen’s, so I couldn’t tell you all the particulars, but I remember the phrase I used was something that ended in “she bolted from the room”. My teacher said it sounded like I copied it, which I did, but I was very indignant; isn’t it okay to learn a new way to say something, and use it somewhere else? I remember the feeling to this day.

Imagine my surprise when I learned that Helen Keller was also called out by a teacher for plagiarizing, and that it was a pivotal moment in her life.