Absolute happiness and perfect optimisation of the self
On post-release doldrums, the brave and compelling act of writing a memoir, Hijack, slow reading, and my personal beef with Bonnie Garmus
Hello there fellow kids,
How are things? Better than my things, I hope—my things are all faded and fraying around the edges, both metaphorically (I am tired of life!) and literally (I need new underpants!). Still, I’m hopeful that once the end of December finally rolls over us like a mack truck I will spring up again, freshened and renewed by the fact that it is 2024, a new year, meaning I can begin afresh on my eternal journey towards absolute happiness and perfect optimisation of the self.
I’m actually not feeling as bad as I was a couple of weeks ago, as I’ve just come out the other side of an intense case of post-book-release doldrums—a common experience which ensnares many authors following the launch of their debut book. For me, this peaked a couple of weeks ago and unfortunately coincided with the arrival of the end of year best-of lists (which, as noted in my last newsletter, inexplicably did not all include my book??? Objectively the most important book to come out this century????).
Because I’m generally surprisingly mentally stable for a bleak nihilistic misanthrope who loves nothing more than gazing into the void, I honestly didn’t expect to be so affected by publishing a book. I arrogantly assumed that post-release psychological struggles were for people with anxiety, or a narcissistic personality disorder, or completely unrealistic expectations about the debauched parties full of nude models, zebras and mountains of free cocaine which would inevitably follow the publication of their book. But no! Turns out that a psychological struggle, like the music of The Beatles, or photos of kittens, or hot chips dipped in tomato sauce, can be enjoyed by basically anyone!
Anyway, happily my desire to lie in bed all day drinking wine direct from the bottle and feeling sorry for myself seems to have subsided—which is lucky because it turns out it is quite difficult to feel sorry for yourself when you’re an incredibly lucky middle-class white woman in pretty good health with two great kids, a lovely partner, three neurotic cats, and absolutely nothing you can legitimately complain about. It was difficult, yes, but friends—I managed to do it. Thank you. I know. I’m very talented.
Books
I’m reading several books at once at the moment, which means I’m making very slow progress with all of them. One book I’m particularly loving is Jess Ho’s memoir, Raised By Wolves, about their experiences working in Melbourne’s sexist, racist, macho, and exploitative food industry—it’s hard-boiled, fast-paced, funny and frequently shocking.
One of my favourite things about this book though is how much it celebrates gossip, truly one of the purest pleasures in life:
This was the moment I realised I loved gossip. I had been starved of it all my life. That evening, I learned which of my colleagues had ‘fished off the company pier’, which of them had broken up, even though I didn’t know they were dating, and which regulars were crazy stalkers. I didn’t know what was fact, what was rumour and what was speculation, but I lapped it up like a kitten at a saucer full of milk.
As a fellow kitten forever lapping at the delicious saucer of Other People’s Drama, I found this highly relatable.
Interestingly, I’ve realised that this year some of my favourite books have been memoirs. These include Alexandra Collier’s entertaining and moving memoir, Inconceivable, about her journey towards solo motherhood; Robert Skinner’s hilarious collection of memoir-based essays, I’d Rather Not; and of course my mother’s brilliant, highly original memoir of growing up in Melbourne in the 1950s and 60s, Eleven Letters to You.
Seems that despite living most of my life exclusively reading made up stories about people who don’t exist, my head is finally being turned by…reality. I’m not sure why I’ve generally steered clear of memoirs in the past; perhaps I’ve assumed that memoir would lack the kind of fearless emotional truth that can be more safely explored in fiction. The thing about writing novels is that you can write about all sorts of disturbing stuff that might be completely or partially drawn from your own life, but you can always deny that it’s about you, and this gives you a layer of protection that is not available to memoirists. Novelists can skulk around dark alleyways in elaborate disguises, but if you’re a memoirist you’re basically striding through the centre of town on a bright day in a state of partial undress, showing the reader the parts of yourself that normally remain unseen: this is who I think I am. It’s brave, and—I’ve come to realise—it can also be incredibly compelling.
Television
I recently signed up to Apple TV+ to watch the second season of The Afterparty, which is a delightfully playful comedy/mystery show with a great cast and excellent jokes—the vibes are not dissimilar to Only Murders in the Building. Although I was disappointed to read that they’re not making a third season of The Afterparty, Apple have made quite a few interesting shows—as well as Schmigadoon! (which I wrote about here), I loved Severance and Slow Horses, and we also recently enjoyed Lessons in Chemistry, the adaptation of Bonnie Garmus’ smash-hit novel of the same name. Incidentally, on a crazy whim earlier this year I emailed Bonnie Garmus via her website to ask her if she would consider endorsing my book, and she wrote me a very kind personal email back in which she gently said not on your life. Obviously she is now my sworn enemy and I will go to great lengths to destroy her.
Another good thing we watched on Apple TV was Hijack, a gentle show about a Sardinian olive farmer…lol, just kidding, it’s about a plane hijacking. It was a bit ridiculous, but also highly addictive—we binge-watched the whole thing over two nights. There were two things I particularly appreciated about it: first, that the violence is relatively minimal, and occurs mostly off-screen, which is an unusual choice for a show of this nature; and second, that its Arab characters were portrayed as human beings rather than fanatics/swindlers/gun-fodder (depressingly, also an unusual choice). Oh yes—and there was also a third thing I particularly appreciated: Idris Elba’s fine acting skills/stupidly handsome face.
Other things
This week I read and loved this post by Melbourne writer and bookseller Jaclyn Crupi on her reading habits, which are considerably more noble than my reading habits. She reads a lot of books, she finishes every books she starts, and she doesn’t skim read:
I’m reading novels for prose not plot. I read every single beautiful, delicious, carefully chosen word. That word next to that word next to that word. Beautiful sentences bring me to my knees. Beautiful paragraphs unravel me. I recently read a book whose first sixty pages were so perfect I wept with joy. Wept with joy. I had to go out into the garden and plant some pumpkin seeds to recover. I have not recovered (the pumpkins are doing great). I hope never to recover. Those 60 pages (and in fact the entire book) are part of me now.
I aspire to be this type of reader. When I do read books in this way, with this kind of generous attention, I definitely get much more out of them than when I just bounce over the top of them like a stone on a flat pond. Often, unfortunately, I find myself driven by a desire to have read something rather than a desire to actually read it, which is objectively nuts, like flying to all the airports in Asia and calling yourself well-travelled when you haven’t ever stopped to see the sights. It’s hard to slow down, when there are so many books that I want to read, but this post was a good reminder to make the effort.
Other things I’ve found interesting recently include:
this piece in the New Yorker about the new Todd Haynes film, May December, which is inspired by the real life case in the US in which a 30-something teacher abused and became pregnant by her 12 year old student. I haven’t seen the film yet but it sounds both interesting and troubling.
visiting the NGV Triennial, which has so much interesting stuff to see and wasn’t quite as overwhelmingly busy as the blockbuster exhibitions usually are. Also worth visiting the beautiful and austere M Pavilion designed by Tadao Ando:
Finally, if you haven’t read my book yet and are considering it, I highly recommend the audiobook. The narrator, Sonya Kerr, has done an immaculate job—I was a bit nervous about how some of the more absurd bits would sound when read out loud but she makes them so fucking funny. I loved it.
Until next time,
Eleanor xx
Holy shit I needed new underpants this year and lemme tell ya, life in new undies fucking rules. Often I parade around in just my undies and say “I’m ready to take you to school/kinder” to my children. Hilair!
Hope Santa takes the hint about new undies 😜