my favourite books of 2022

Hello friends, happy new year! How have you been?

First cab off the rank is my usual reading highlights post. It amused me how many “best books I read in 2022” articles and posts I started seeing appear in the lead up to Christmas because I nearly always end up reading one of my favourite books of the year between Christmas and New Year’s Eve.

2022 was no exception! It turned out my favourite book of the year was waiting wrapped under the Christmas tree, which I read in a handful of sittings on Boxing Day afternoon. It was one of the most transcendent and important reading experiences of my year.

My favourite book of the year

Nothing Bad Ever Happens Here (2022) by Heather Rose

Long time readers of my ramblings will know that I would buy a book about paint drying if Heather Rose wrote it - I have never been disappointed by her writing and this long-awaited memoir was no exception. I had no idea how autobiographical her first novel, White Heart, actually was.

Reading Nothing Bad Ever Happens Here was a joy - I had forgotten that delicious, expansive feeling of finishing an entire book in a mere handful of sittings over a day or, in my case, one afternoon! It was glorious. Moving, insightful, tender, inspiring. In many ways, it was the perfect book to end 2022 - a very strange and at times incredibly painful year. Nothing Bad Ever Happens Here is about all the interwoven threads of our lives, how an idyllic childhood can be shattered in moments, and where the search for meaning, love, connection and wholeness can take you. How even suffering, unimaginable grief, might have a deeper meaning and push us in the direction our lives were always intended for:

Every human life is perfect in its own way. We cannot understand that, because it seems like there is so much suffering. But maybe every life is perfect for we need to know and learn and see and understand. Even when we don't understand, even when the suffering seems unfathomable, does some part of us understand? Could that really be true, I wondered?

Nothing bad ever happens here...

My body was shaking violently now. I held onto the rock beneath me as if I was clinging to life itself. Maybe I was. I clung to this life, my life, with all its imperfections and mistakes, with all its joy. I didn't want to go anywhere.

The key message for me was that choosing joy is an act of courage, especially in the face of trauma, grief and endless knocks to one’s spirit. Joy and pain can co-exist, as can light and dark, as can mystery and knowledge. This book has encouraged me, going into 2023, to seek joy as much as possible, to deliberately cultivate it. It was also a timely reminder, as I’m staring down the last 18 months of my PhD, that the work I am doing, that I’ve been called to do, will take everything I have.

I loved it.

And now, for the honourable mentions:

A fabulous collection of inter-connected short stories that read more like a novel, and set in Tassie

Smokehouse (2021) by Melissa Manning

Two excellent books on the craft of writing, especially within the Australian context

The Writer Laid Bare (2022) by Lee Kofman

Reading Like an Australian Writer (2021) edited by Belinda Castles

Two books that cemented my decision to continue my social media hiatus for the foreseeable future

Break the Internet: In Pursuit of Influence (2022) by Olivia Yallop

Stolen Focus: Why You Can’t Pay Attention (2022) by Johann Hari

A moving and evocative poetry collection that I adored and savoured

Ledger (2021) by Jane Hirshfield

A stunning, no-detail-spared biography that expanded my world considerably

My Tongue is My Own: A Life of Gwen Harwood (2022) by Ann-Marie Priest - see my review for TEXT here

A book that reignited my passion for and interest in a writer who has influenced and intrigued me for decades

Three-Martini Afternoons at the Ritz: The Rebellion of Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton (2022) by Gail Crowther

A book I read out of sheer curiosity that was astonishing, daring and brilliant

Nightbitch (2021) by Rachel Yoder

A book of essays that was so clever, inventive and insightful it made me want to rewrite everything I’ve ever published

Blueberries (2020) by Ellena Savage

Cookbooks I did not just devour the words of but actually cooked a lot from

One Pot: Three Ways (2021) by Rachel Ama

Unbelievably Vegan (2022) by Charity Morgan

Tenderheart (2022) by Hetty Lui McKinnon

A cookbook I have not yet cooked from but that was so beautifully written I read it twice

The Year of Miracles (2022) by Ella Risbridger

So there you have it, another year’s reading done and dusted. I’ve been writing about my favourite books for ten years now! Here are my favourites from 2021 | 2020 | 2019 | 2018 | 2017 | 2016 | 2015 | 2014 | 2013

What were your favourites from last year? Do tell me!

Please note: this blog post has affiliate links with retailers such as Booktopia which means I may receive a commission for a sale that I refer, at no extra cost to you.

review in TEXT: My Tongue is My Own, a life of Gwen Harwood by Ann-Marie Priest

I was very honoured to review Ann-Marie Priest’s wonderful book My Tongue is My Own: A Life of Gwen Harwood for TEXT Journal of Writing and Writing Courses last month. It’s published now and you can read it here.

It took me some time to read and digest this incredible, meticulously researched and detailed biography of one of Australia’s most significant poets of the last century. There seemed a lighthearted wink from Gwen Harwood (and perhaps Ann-Marie Priest too), towards the end, where Priest recounts the poet declaring her hatred for writing reviews: “It seems insulting to praise or dismiss in a few pages work that has taken years to write” (p.313) which sums up my thoughts exactly. For a while I wasn’t sure how I was ever going to do justice to this very accomplished biography! As a result, my review could not be described as succinct but I wanted to give this book the time and attention it deserved, as its author does to her subject.

As a Tasmanian, this book was particularly enjoyable as there are so many familiar names and sites. Gwen Harwood’s Hobart of the 1950s and 1960s was also the Hobart my own parents grew up in. While I was reading it, I asked my father if his parents, who were very much part of the town’s artsy set (his words) at the time, had known the Harwoods. He couldn’t recall, but when I mentioned James McCauley, a close friend of both Bill and Gwen Harwood who is mentioned often in the book, his eyes lit up.

“I bought a car off his widow in 1977,” he said. “Mrs McCauley on Sandy Bay Road. A grey Holden FD. Nice little car.”

I also asked a friend of mine, a writer who lives in New Zealand now but who was raised in Hobart, if she had known Gwen Harwood too. It seemed likely, as she was a budding poet in the early 1990s. She smiled and told me about a workshop Gwen gave at Elizabeth College when she was doing her HSC.

“She read my poem aloud to the group and said she liked the imagery. I then started writing to her. I still remember her address.” Her memories were that Gwen was more than willing to make time for anyone who showed an inclination for writing, which Ann-Marie Priest also mentions. I include these two anecdotes here to illustrate my great amusement at the inter-connectedness of life in Hobart which is still very much a thing - you might not know the individual personally, but you’ll only ever be a few degrees of separation away :)

Thank you again TEXT for asking me to review this amazing book, which I highly recommend to anyone interested in poetry, feminism, twentieth-century Australia, or all three!

Please note: this blog post has affiliate links with retailers such as Booktopia which means I may receive a commission for a sale that I refer, at no extra cost to you.

eavan boland: the lost art of letter writing

Image by Bruno /Germany from Pixabay 

THE LOST ART OF LETTER WRITING

The ratio of daylight to handwriting
Was the same as lacemaking to eyesight.
The paper was so thin it skinned air.

The hand was fire and the page tinder.
Everything burned away except the one
Place they singled out between fingers

Held over a letter pad they set aside
For the long evenings of their leave-takings,
Always asking after what they kept losing,

Always performing—even when a shadow
Fell across the page and they knew the answer
Was not forthcoming—the same action:

First the leaning down, the pen becoming
A staff to walk fields with as they vanished
Underfoot into memory. Then the letting up,

The lighter stroke, which brought back
Cranesbill and thistle, a bicycle wheel
Rusting: an iron circle hurting the grass

Again and the hedges veiled in hawthorn
Again just in time for the May Novenas
Recited in sweet air on a road leading

To another road, then another one, widening
To a motorway with four lanes, ending in
A new town on the edge of a city

They will never see. And if we say
An art is lost when it no longer knows
How to teach a sorrow to speak, come, see

The way we lost it: stacking letters in the attic,
Going downstairs so as not to listen to
The fields stirring at night as they became

Memory and in the morning as they became
Ink; what we did so as not to hear them
Whispering the only question they knew

By heart, the only one they learned from all
Those epistles of air and unreachable distance,
How to ask: is it still there?

- Eavan Boland