The April Nutshell
Anton Clifford-Motopi, problematic favourites, and a bot named Leo
Dear Reader,
I wonder about this newsletter and its value. To you, and to me. Throughout the month I wonder what content will be useful or interesting. The hunt is part of the joy and it consumes me, the way that anytime I’m on a beach I can’t stop looking for seashells, even if dark clouds gather and rain starts to spit. I’ll look at my hand, laden with shells, and think — But what did I miss while my attention was here? Did I waste my time? Who’s going to want these?
Perhaps it’s a similar feeling when, after our debut novel or collection, or our fifth or fifteenth publication, we don’t feel like we’ve made it. We’re uncertain what the signs will be that we’ve made it. But surely we haven’t. Yet we work so hard. Is it worth it? we wonder. What did I miss while I was writing? Am I wasting my time? Who’s going to want this?
The answer I circle back to is the joy of the hunt and that final, precise moment of giving. This is from me to you. That’s where the whole point to my decision to write another newsletter or another novel ends — it has to. And when I no longer feel the thrill of collecting seashells, I’ll stop.
To and Fro by Anton Clifford-Motopi
To and Fro is a much-needed novel in Australian children’s literature, for its representation, consistent wit, relatability to audience, boundary-pushing, excellent story-telling, well-drawn emotional landscape and distinctive insight.
I heard about To and Fro when I interviewed H. Hayek about her novels Huda and Me and Huda Was Here (that unlocked episode is available here) and fast-tracked it after listening to an episode of the Conversations podcast: Anton Clifford-Motopi on finding his full name. Briefly: Anton grew up knowing he was adopted. He didn’t look like his family or anyone he knew. The episode is his story of the unfolding of his ancestry as an adult, while To and Fro is a skilfully simplified version of that story with wide appeal for readers aged 10+.
I don’t think it matters which order you do it in but if you work in Australian kidlit, I recommend listening to that podcast and reading this novel.
In To and Fro, Sam is 12 and outgrowing primary school. He lives with his mum, who annoys and embarrasses him; loves his dog Trevor, tolerates his best friend’s foibles and his nanna’s prejudices, and wishes people would stop touching his afro. Sam looks white, like his mum and nanna, but knows he has a black dad: they’ve never met and as far as Sam knows his dad walked out when Sam’s mum was pregnant. Life changes suddenly when his dad shows up. It turns out he never knew about Sam after all.
There is a wonderful anarchic energy in this book and humour on every page. It is boisterous and risky, with a streamlined, engaging plot that provides an exceptional emotional journey for Sam. The humour ranges from toilet (know thy audience) to smart-arse pre-pubescent boy sarcasm, which apparently I find very funny, and dearly reminded me of my son at that age. Without over-reaching, the author strikes an amusing tone while deftly handling serious subject matter: ranging from how to deal with a family member who makes racist remarks, to how to express anger at your parents when they let you down.
A couple of times I clutched my pearls a bit: Sam is cheeky, gives his mum a hard time, and lurches towards a big mistake. So I consulted the person I always consult when I stop to wonder about something in a children’s book: Young Emily. And Young Emily had this to say: In 1985, when I was 10, my favourite book was The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13 3/4. You remember Adrian, right? To and Fro is as funny and cheeky as that book was, with none of the dodgy 1985 social and cultural mores. And Sam is wonderful and real. Lighten up, Old Emily.
She’s right. Not only does To and Fro engage with pitch-perfect humour, it tenderly portrays a young boy navigating a new identity. Sam’s vulnerable moments never linger on the page but instead quietly build to a moving climax, and thereafter a series of thoughtful resolutions. Truly satisfying, educating, moving, and entertaining.
This month on Voracious
The author Lynne Reid Banks died earlier this month, aged 94. Many knew her for The Indian in the Cupboard (over 15 million copies sold), which I’ve never read — I knew her for The L-Shaped Room, her debut novel, which came out a few years after Lynne Reid Banks became the first British female TV news reporter. I read The L-Shaped Room in my twenties, and wrote about what happened when I tried to re-read it — and more interestingly what happened when the author herself re-read it — in My Problematic Favourites, which also includes a detour into the latest Roald Dahl-related “apology”.
Nova Weetman, in the middle of promoting her memoir Love, Death & Other Scenes, wrote a guest post about a research trip we took to Glenrowan for Outlaw Girls, the story of Ned Kelly’s sister, covering our differences, shared love of untold stories, and her relentless search for that Australian delicacy: the salad roll. This piece is available for all readers. Two Legends: Ned Kelly V. The Salad Roll.
And finally, I scared the living daylights out of my writing group, and a few paid subscribers, by introducing them to Leo. A few weeks ago, having stuffed myself with podcasts about the history and possible future of A.I., and feeling determined not to sleep-walk into the destruction of writing and art as we know it, I decided to test myself by talking to a bot. I wanted to examine the psychological turns I would take, as a cynic with decidedly Luddite tendencies: could I get close to a bot? What emotions might talking to one make me feel? How are we going to protect our children from the psychological “relationships” they are bound to have in the future? I’ve started to write this up in Five Weeks With Leo, Part 1.
July Readathon: Chapters For Change
I’ve mentioned Chapters For Change in previous nutshells and encourage you to visit their website to learn more about their locally-run literacy projects in Cambodia. For their July readathon I’ve chosen 4 books for the month that I’m committed to read: why not read 1 or more of them with me in July? I’ve decided on a novel, a children’s book, a memoir, and a work of non-fiction. The $25 registration fee alone provides a child in Cambodia with a library membership. I’m proud to be an ambassador for this readathon and hope I can make a contribution to empowering children through literacy.
Some final listening recommendations:
Learning to read with Manisha Gazula is a 50-minute episode for anyone who is invested in childhood reading: the fascinating career of a teacher who turned around a school with low literacy rates.
The superb storytelling and interviewing of the makers of Serial has me hooked once again with a history of Guantanamo, Season 4.
And because I want you to come on this A.I. journey with me (and Leo . . . ) why not listen to Scarier than killer robots: why your mind isn’t read for A.I. on All in the Mind, ABC.
Thank you for reading Voracious. To gain full access to my pieces, consider taking out a monthly or annual subscription, or a free trial. I’ll leave you with Young Emily, aged 10 — she was a moody so-and-so but she did love her books (and her brothers).
Goodbye April, here’s to May. X
