I've been tagged! Lucky 7 via Andrew Blackman

So, I haven't been blogging as much here, simply because I am on a self-imposed ban on reading fiction until I finish my MA (Jan 2013). Until then, its Foucault, Bourdieu, (grits teeth), Putnam and Allport. (Clearly, I have an interest in Social Capital Theory)....

Anyhoo, was delighted to have been tagged by Andrew Blackman in the Lucky Seven challenge.
Andrew explains the rules: you post an extract from your WIP: line 7, page 7 and 7 lines of prose.

Before I post my extract, a short summary of the novel: the book is set in Newham, East London (my 'hood'), the book looks at a number of inter-connected characters who all give their accounts of being in relationships; some of which work out, and some which don't.  Sounds fairly simple, but it gets complicated...

This extract is from a character called "Luke," Luke has written a letter to an ex-girlfriend in which he attempts to explain his actions:

I thought you were really cheeky when I asked you what you wanted to eat and if you wanted Indian.  And you said “Why would I want to eat Indian?  I eat Indian every day.”  I should have known then that your brain was going ten times faster than mine.  I fell for you quite hard, and it took me by surprise, I didn’t even get that right did I?  Trying to tell you that I had feelings for you?  That was our first serious argument.  I was jealous because you had spent the night with your friends…and I assumed “friends” meant another man. And then I blurted it out. I remember the look on your face, and you didn’t even say anything.  You just sat next to me and rubbed my head and put your head on my shoulder.  And that was it, we were together. 

Now it is my turn to tag another 7 writers, I have chosen: 

Alex Wheatle @brixtonbard 

Naomi James @namstatheauthor 

DD Armstrong @Dd_Armstrong

Tanya Byrne @tanyabyrne Heart Shaped Bruise  

Hafsah @esotericsips

Mr Oh Yes @MrOhYes 

Hannah @thegirlinacafe 

Looking forward to your Lucky 7s !! 

 

A Dangerous Fortune, Ken Follett

The collapse of a significant Methodist banking family in Victorian England embroiled in intrigue, murder and at the mercy of cunning beyond their naivety and powerful manipulation forms the basis of the plot for this masterful book by Follett.

The Pilasters are a traditional banking family whose power is such that they can bring down a monarchy by refusal of a loan, so it is a massive karmic joke when the bank bearing their name: Pilasters implodes from within. Follett is so skilled at creating morally ambivalent characters, that when reading this book, I was far more interested in reading the Micky Miranda or Augusta Pilaster chapters, rather than the fine and upstanding Hugh Pilaster. 

The book spans the latter half of the 19^th century which Queen Victoria, frosty old bitch was on the throne, and rigid silly rules determined social rank and etiquette. The fastidious and ambitious matriarch of the family resents her husband’s young nephew Hugh Pilaster who she quite rightly recognises as a credible threat to her own son’s rise to power. Hugh’s career as he seeks a partnership in his father’s bank is consistently thwarted by Augusta’s machinations. Behind the scenes is also a far more decadently ambitious young man Micky Miranda (anglicised from Miguel Miranda) whose friendship and cultivation of Edward Pilaster (Augusta’s son) marks the beginning of the end for the Pilasters.

This is a real melodrama, one that completely draws you in from the beginning when we are introduced to the young boys at Windfield School and the murder of one of them by Micky Miranda and how their paths are inextricably linked forever after that incident. It is a book, which is nicely balanced between plot and characterisation. Follett is known for developing strong characters (Pillars of the Earth, A Fall of Giants), my one criticism is that Follett almost over eggs the descriptions of some of the characters’ sexual predilections to make a point that the Victorians were just as depraved as you and I. But this is a small criticism of an otherwise masterful tale.

Reading A Dangerous Fortune in light of the current global recession (don’t believe them, we ARE still in a recession), you appreciate the level of research Follett did in order to understand the Victorian banking system. The collapse of the Pilaster bank is predicated on one idiot’s foolish decision, but the skill required of a banker to calculate risk and understand how events far far away can have important ramifications on the open bonds market (shit, even I learned something), is highlighted with unbiased prejudice.

Thoroughly enjoyed the level of detail which was just enough in this book, I think the Victorians are always a favourite for authors to tear apart, but in this book, as a reader you get the sense that this was a period of nostalgia. All those social mores and roles regarding etiquette were about to be turned upside down with the advent of a more liberal outlook from well positioned young people in “high society.” This is highlighted in this book by Follett’s take on Prince Bertie’s involvement with the Marlborough Set, a rowdy, relaxed fun loving London set led by Maisie Greenbourne, married to prominent Jewish banker: Solly Greenbourne. Follett does well to highlight the huge gaps between those considered upper class and those from the lower classes, and how quickly their fortunes can turn. 

Nick Harkaway

I am really looking forward to reading Nick's newest book: Angelmaker which follows The Gone-Away World.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/feb/12/nick-harkaway-angelmaker-review

I do like authors who refuse to pigeon-hole themselves and their writing into a genre - Nick certainly rebels against the publishing world's label-hype and mixes it all up.

The Istanbul Puzzle by L P O'Bryan

I was a little unsure of how I would feel about reading this, as I am wary of interacting with anything that over-simplifies the current global context of Islam vs well everything and anything else. But, I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised and glad of the way in which Laurence skilfully handled the depiction of a fictionalised islamic uprising in Europe against the backdrop of a mystery in Istanbul.

The mystery starts with the discovery of a decapitated body in Istanbul. The body is one of a researcher: Alek whose death comes as a deep shock to his friend and colleague: Sean who is summoned to Istanbul by the British Consulate to identify the body.  Sean, is still grieving for the death of his wife who died whilst in Afghanistan. I wasn't sure that this was entirely relevant to the story. I understand that the reasoning may have been to provide some context to Sean's slight antipathy towards Muslims - but I don't think it was strong enough or relevant. However, his grief does explain to some extent Sean's sense of urgency to find out exactly what happened to Alek and whether Alek's discovery of something of historical and religious significance was the reason why he was killed.

The setting of the first half of the novel in Istanbul is incredibly detailed and really does add a sense of "exoticism" to the pacing and action of the novel. My one gripe was that things seemed to move a little too fast and I found myself having to go back a chapter or two to understand the connection between certain characters or events. Sean is aided in his mission by a British official: Isabel. I found her quite annoying, her mannerisms were cloying and a little one-dimensional. And the relationship which blossoms between Sean and Isabel seemed a little hasty, it certainly put the question of Sean's grief regarding his wife to bed rather conveniently.

It's clear that Laurence is extremely fond of Istanbul, his descriptions of the city, the people, the ambience is very clear and lucid. I think without these descriptions, the novel would have suffered, especially as the narrative around Alek's discovery is steeped in religious and cultural discourse. Both what is discovered and the implications for the Christian and Islamic worlds are huge, so the setting helps to calm the reader from overthinking about the ramifications.

After their return to London from Istanbul, I found that my apprehension regarding any potential for simplistic demonisations of Islam had largely disappeared. The real villain of the piece and his motivations for trying to launch an airborne plague which could have squarely been blamed on Muslims attending a demonstration become clear. In a twitter exchange with Laurence, he remarked that his motivations for writing this book along with an article he wrote about Islam, the Crusades and the historical significance of Vladimir Dracula are purely based on his desire to expose those who seek to cause trouble and who want to make things worse. And I have to agree, interestingly I took from the villainry of the Istanbul Puzzle, the right wing demagogues in American politics and their embeddedness with the Tea Party movement and obstructions to attempts to seek peace within American domestic politics and abroad. There are certainly trouble-makers who come in all different shapes and sizes and are motivated by different agendas. It would be foolhardy to take a piece of well-written fiction as evidence of being for or against something, if we strip away the wider gloabl context of radicalised Islam and the threat this presents to everyone (including non-radical Islam), then the Istanbul Puzzle stands on its own two feet as a good thriller. Considered in the context of radicalised Islam however and recent geopolitics, then we would have to be careful that dogma does not take over rational thought.

I have read some other reviews comparing or at least hinting at the similarity of style between The Istanbul Puzzle and Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code. I think that would be an unfair comparison, as the "believeability" of the Istanbul Puzzle is far higher than the Da Vinci Code. The Istanbul Puzzle, thanks to the skill of Laurence is also not as controversial as the Da Vinci Code. When you consider their writing skills, you being to realise how clunky and clumsy Dan Brown is, whereas Laurence is more subtle and nuanced. I do have a few criticisms which I think other readers will also pick up on, namely that the discovery of the mystery is not as climatic as I would have liked.  Also I think Sean and Isabel's characters do need some refinement. Apart from that, as a debut thriller, the book is good.

A great thriller, a promising first in a series of The X Puzzle series ( I understand that Laurence is working on The Jerusalem Puzzle next).

For alternative reviews from Amazon bloggers, see here. I think Bibi's review is pretty strong.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/cdp/member-reviews/AIKG7TPNTLXV8/ref=cm_pdp_rev_title_3?ie=UTF8&sort_by=MostRecentReview#RCVFY1G98WLCF

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/cdp/member-reviews/A2RDZYGFMVL87I/ref=cm_pdp_rev_title_1?ie=UTF8&sort_by=MostRecentReview#R3JB6X0VYDOEDR

The Hit by Patrick Quinlan

Having committed to uping my reading ante of this not very helpful genre: "crime fiction," I stumbled upon reviews of Patrick Quinlan on Goodreads. Browsed through the quite mixed reviews of his stable of books and decided to dip my toes in with "The Hit."

The book centres on two mismatched and Hollywoodised (I wonder if Quinlan wrote this in the hopes that a bored screenwriter would pick this up and think "Cha-Ching!"), bounty-hunters: Gordo who is fat, white and broke and Jonah who is black, fit and broke. The search for their bounty: a sick twisted rapist and murderer (who incidentally also happens to be in the top quintile for IQ) Forester, leads them to uncover a highly unbelievable plot involving a Vietnam Vet with what I can only say are "issues" and his determination to launch a domestic terrorist attack on a small caribbean island with a highly virulent form of Cholera. Too much, Patrick, WAY TOO MUCH.

To be kind, I would say that the context of the book: economic malaise in America, disconnected realities and a society which is unkind to drifters is very prescient and relatable. Quinlan writes in the here and now and not in some abstract time and period which readers might not relate to. His pace is also quite good, even though the more I read through it, the more ludicrous the plot became (including an impromptu romance between Jonah and the bored abused wife of the architect of the terrorist attack), I did enjoy the action.

Quinlan has written this for a very specific audience: Hollywood studios. Any studio could pick this up and turn it into a passable action movie. And therein is the let down. Readers want to be able to imagine: we don't necessarily want it all laid out on a plate for us. Give us some mystery for crying out loud, not everything needs an explanation. Quinlan spends far too much time explaining the background to the main characters than dealing with tightening up his plot and some of the intricacies. Elmore Leonard this ain't, it's just not "noir" enough to really justify some of the more generous reviews The Hit has garnered.

Ok for a lazy read.

She wasn't real.

I once knew a girl with eyes of steel. She had balls of steel and a heart of steel too. She looked like something regal, something ephemeral, something not quite real. I melted that heart of steel with broken promises and aspirations bigger than her or I.

We spent a summer of lovemaking, of dipping toes into ponds, eating pralines from each other's mouths. We spoke every hour; small innocuous texts which if unanswered would make us break into sweat. Tensions would mount until we could see each other again and take in each other, greedily, jealously, always with a little blood. 

She would cover my chest and neck in bites. People would giggle and ask "haha, are you 13?" She would fall into my lap like a ragdoll and fall asleep in my arms until dawn broke. She would slam doors and break mugs during fights and grip my skin in the throes of making up. She hurt my head with her frowns and pouts. She said “no!” often and loud.

That heart of steel disappeared one day, she stared at me and I looked away. She knew, I knew, I had won the war while she had won the battles. She waved the white flag and rubbed my feet. Those eyes of steel were no longer cold or hard, the heat she gave was too hot to bear. I burnt my hands, my feet, my heart and my soul.

She was never unreal, she was real. She didn't walk, she was forced to leave. She never cried. She remained silent and cold. Her eyes would see through me. She could see the hurt and the shame. She polished that heart of steel until it gleamed so bright, it would hurt your eyes. The heat had disappeared never to be seen again. In its place a wintry shower staked it’s place.

They say a mirror doesn’t lie. This one is throwing all sorts of truth back at my face. The girl with eyes of steel looks on from a distance. Arms folded, she’s cross and disappointed. She moves with stealth like a jaguar in the forest. Once or twice I see flashes of her steely gaze, too short, too momentary for a lasting reunion. I remember her at dawn. When the sun is breaking, that’s the best time to remember her neat little shape. On my lap, in my bed, she slept like a deer, never moving.

The day I loved my Baby.

The day I loved my Baby.

Wednesday 23^rd July was a scorching hot day. As I sat on the bus with Baby next to me, I looked out of the window and saw dirty snotty-nosed babies in battered pushchairs older than the girls pushing them. I looked at Baby, she smiled a toothless smile and scrunched her nose the way that she does. The bus was full of women with pot bellies round as perfect peaches, ready to deliver a new life. Some were red with the heat and exhaustion of the day, others were solemn faced and perturbed, perhaps with the anxiety of becoming mothers. My pregnancy came and went as fast as the sun rose and set on a short winter’s day. One minute I was hurling abuse at my boyfriend for using a year old condom, and the next; a brown slimy baby was at my side. She had dark dark hair and dark dark eyes. Eyes so dark, you could see your reflection in the deep chocolate irises. Even at a few hours old, all Baby did was smile at me. A strange knowing smile, I was never quite sure what to make of it. But I got used to it eventually.

I was half a mile up the road with two full shopping bags when I realized “I LEFT BABY ON THE BUS!!!!” I bent over myself and was sick. I had left my poor defenceless smiley baby on the bus and walked half a mile before realizing that I had left her. I took a few deep breaths and ran like the wind back to the bus stop I had got off at. My fingers fumbled manically as I tried to reach the police, my boyfriend, anyone who I thought could tell me just what the hell to do. As I approached the bus stop, I spotted an elderly lady in a fox fur stole and she had my Baby in her hands!!! I rushed with relief towards them and the lady smiled and handed her over to me. “You should be more careful my dear.” I nodded in shame and hurled Baby over my shoulder and walked off in disgrace.

Baby had the hiccups, I swirled her around, I said “BOO!” loudly several times, even turned her upside down and patted her on her back. This just made her giggle even more and made her hiccups worse. I sat down on a low wall in front of a posh gated house, just to catch my breath and let the sun dance on Baby’s face. She sighed and made noises like she was ready to go to sleep. I asked her “Are you ready to carry on?” Baby scrunched her nose and smiled. On we went. It felt like it was just Baby and I on a neverending red carpet. People who passed us looked on in admiration at Baby and I. Baby’s hair curled with perspiration and she looked in amazement at the fast cars that sped past us. When we walked under a tree with low branches and leaves, her small hands grabbed at the leaves. She was exhilarated.

Baby liked rap music. I blamed my boyfriend. When I was pregnant with Baby, he was forever playing Public Enemy and Dr Dre’s The Chronic album. Whenever she heard rap music, Baby would nod her head in time to the beat and wave her hands at a Dre bar. My rap was awful, but I would “spit a few bars” to entertain Baby.  I quietly muttered: Still not loving po’lice uh huh, still rocking my khakis with a cuff and a crease, still got love for the streets.” Baby laughed like a horse and threw her head back. Two builders working on a house watched my daughter and I laugh in the sun that day to Dr Dre. Baby, ever the showgirl, waved a small wave at the builders. One of them cocked his head at her and blew her kiss. He mouthed “She’s lovely babe,” to me. I nodded in agreement.

As the sun went down, Baby and I neared our final destination, her eyes opened and closed in half sleep, she was reaching out for the last rays of the sun with her fist clenching and unclenching. Before I opened the gate, I saw down on a lovely old wooden bench. Clearly it had been dedicated in memory of a loving son or father or grandfather or uncle. Or maybe even just a good friend. The name had eroded after many years of people catching their breath on the bench, young lovers kissing, women catching up with friends, a young mother with her sleeping baby.

I closed my eyes and opened them, Baby’s gravestone had an ever so small coating of dust from the heat of the day I supposed. I wiped the dust away with my palms and ran my fingers over the engravement. Baby was gone. I walked this walk every day with my Baby. One year old and neither I or her father had decided on a name so we just stuck to Baby. He had long gone now. To have children with someone else, children who grew up to love rap as much as he did. Baby loved rap from the day she had been conceived to the day her lungs breathed out her last breaths. That was the day when I realized that I had fallen in love with my Baby.