A song of praise for Carys Bray

The third and final in a series of articles on the novels shortlisted for the 2015 Desmond Elliott Prize discusses A Song For Issy Bradley, written by my now-Twitter-pal Carys Bray. Spoilers as always.

I picked up Bray’s novel in a library. My first library book since university, I stared at the cover and decided to read a few chapters before I checked it out and made any real commitment. 

Instantly I knew this was a very different book to the other two shortlisters I’d reviewed. The content was drastically different. It was less female-centric, for starters, and it was going to teach me about something I really had very little grounding in before. The Mormon faith.

The religion and its practices almost take on a character of itself in the novel. You see how it behaves and what its features are, how it affects people – whether it’s a hero or an anti-hero is open to interpretation. Does it save or capture? Who can tell?

The thing that shone through in this novel is the first-hand experience of it all. The fears, experiences and thought-process all seem to come from a very real place. So when the worst happens, my grief to what was a fictional event, felt very, very real. And when expressing that fact on twitter, I got a very real response from the woman responsible.

Great community spirit Carys. 

What I liked so much about this was how I really wanted these characters to be OK. I didn’t feel particularly strongly that I liked or didn’t like any of them, I just felt the human will of community driving my wish that they’d be OK, they’d make it through their grief and their heartbreak and they’d be a family again. And, more than that, how I was fascinated by how they dealt with it in terms of their faith.

I finished Bray’s the quickest out of all the Desmond Elliot shortlisters, and that stands as a testament to how much I enjoyed it. Touchingly sensitive and emotionally compelling, A Song For Issy Bradly was my favourite of all three.

Read my opinion on representations of women in the competitor for the prize, Emma Healey's Elizabeth is Missing, or check out what I thought of 2015’s prize winner Our Endless Numbered Days by Claire Fuller.

Claire Fuller's endless enrichment of female character

The second in a series of articles on the novels shortlisted for the 2015 Desmond Elliott Prize discusses another debut, Claire Fuller's award winning Our Endless Numbered Days. Spoilers as always.

The story of my connection with Our Endless Numbered Days begins in June 2014, eight months before it's UK launch. That month, I received an email inviting me to a job interview, which I aced, accepted the job, and began working. The woman who emailed me was on holiday when I started the position, but two weeks later I met the person who originally vetted my application – Claire Fuller.

Which puts me in a rather unique position, one which I haven't been in before when talking about, well, anything. But, if my literature degree taught me anything, it's that the author doesn't really have much impact on a book. Except the writing part, of course.

Our Endless Numbered Days: title inspired by an obscure band's album (how very Winchester), winner of the 2015 Desmond Elliott Prize, and dramatic, genre-bordering thriller.

Quick plot summary: when Peggy is eight, her father – essentially – abducts her, taking her to an abandoned Hütte in the middle of absolute nowhere, or somewhere in Europe, as far as we can tell.

The novel is told entirely from Peggy's point of view, firstly from her eight year old self, up until she's 17. And for me, this is what I found most gripping.

Firstly, I like to think that Fuller (can I call her Claire? I know her as Claire) Claire chose her protagonist's gender based on more than personal experience. Take a moment to imagine if the abducted child was a boy.

The differences aren't vast at first – male and female eight year olds are quite similar in their physical and behavioural development – but I wonder if the father would even have taken a boy? Boys aren't as vulnerable as girls, or as delicate. With a female protagonist, she can remain under her father's rule no matter what. He will always be physically superior. With a male protagonist, he will eventually grow stronger and become an alpha. No matter the bond, a boy is far more likely to dominate eventually. And, if it was a boy, the ending would be very different.

Secondly, the development of the character would have taken a different turn indeed. Let's not forget, Peggy is in the woods during the most intimate physical development of her life – puberty. As a female reader – who's a practical thinker even in the most fictional of times – I couldn't help but think of questions like, what happens when Peggy gets her first period? Foliage sanitary towels?!

In this sense, readers are a lot closer to her sheer vulnerability and the extent of how feral her father has forced her to be. It's a far more impactful passage to read rather than a sentence about an awkward morning boner.

And finally, let's talk hair. Well, by that I mean enforced standards of beauty in the Western world.

Claire really effectively paints a portrait of the importance of beauty standards through what Peggy has missed out on. When she returns home, choosing clothes is a subject which absolutely baffles her. Peggy doesn't have any idea about beauty or about all these standards for women, because she hasn't learnt them. She hasn't needed to know how to brush her hair to survive, or how to accessorise. They weren't skills which would keep her alive throughout cold winters. In fact, they're entirely unnecessary. But only when she's in the Western world that she's subjected to comments on her appearance. There's a lot of this kind of comment on YA fiction at the moment, just take a look at The Hunger Games. In fact, I'd like to think Peggy and Katniss could be friends.

It's really refreshing to tear into a novel which so breaks the convention of women, especially young women, in literature. And following Peggy's development is more than fascinating, it's a complete breath of fresh air to see her emotional, mental and physical progression in such a unique environment. Despite the novel's self-limited environment, number of characters and subject matter, Peggy's character is so rich and unique, it's no wonder it won the Desmond Elliott Prize.

My copy looks like this. Yes it's signed. Yes, I went to the book launch. #humblebrag

Read my opinion of other representations of women in competitor for the prize, Emma Healey's Elizabeth is Missing.

The second time around

As the old adage goes, if you can't write your own title, borrow a lyric from Regina Spektor.

Falling in love for the second time took me completely by surprise. It was like the carpet had been pulled from under me while I watched a magician pull a rabbit from a hat. I didn't know it was coming, I didn't know it could happen, and even if someone had told me, I'd never have believed them.

I'd fallen so deeply for my first love that I'd become a believer of the old mantra: "I will never feel that way again". A total cynic, I destined myself to a life of wonderful friends, a job that paid the bills, and, if I ever found another person I wanted to spend my life with, what I would forever consider a marriage that was second best.

It's not a recommended way to think about things.

So when I felt it happening for the second time, I suffered symptoms not unfamiliar to shock.

When you experience something once, sometimes you begin to believe the only way to feel that way is to do the exact same thing. So to be in love, to feel that ecstasy, I'd have to be with that one person – right?

But then, OK, hold the phone, someone else is making me laugh like that? I miss someone else when they're not around? Someone else is hanging out with me – in tracksuit bottoms?!

The first time is always the worst, no matter what you're dealing with. Losing your virginity, getting a bikini wax, falling in and out of love. It's awkward, it's embarrassing and you're left with a soreness you just have to deal with. Luckily for us, we don't have to lose our virginity twice, we can decide to shave, and, when it comes to love, it might actually get easier.

The second time is strange because you're awash with the knowledge that there is more than one person who can satisfy, relate to, and change you on a level you never expected. And, if there's more than one, maybe there are hundreds. Perhaps it's not a puddle, but a sea after all.

So coming to terms with falling in love again is easy. It's a delightful relief. While coming to terms with the knowledge that someone else could break your heart all over again – that's the challenge.

Nipplegate

It is my personal belief that there might be more nipples on this earth than arms.

Everyone's supposed to have two. Some people have less than two arms, but rarely have more. Whereas it's pretty common for people to have a slightly higher than average nipple count. Friends logic would suggest that it's even as common as one in six of us.

So riddle me this then. Why am I not bothered if my run-of-the-mill arms are naked and out there for the world to see, but when it gets cold in a supermarket I immediately wish I was born a boy?

Did you know:

• I won't go in a supermarket without a jacket.
• I don't not wear bras in public. Ever.
• Actually, when I'm in the gym, I wear two bras.

Two. Two fucking bras. Have you ever worn a bra? Try suffocating your two favourite things in a fiddly, underwired hammock for 14 hours a day and then tell me if you'd like another one over the top, just to make sure they don't make a quick escape during some burpees.

The issue is that anyone with a breast larger than a cookie can feel instantly sexualised at the hint of a jiggle or a cool summer breeze. And believe it or not, when I'm searching for chicken fillets, I don't need anybody looking at mine.

This is the problem though isn't it. We have this male-gaze complex. By hiding any part of our body, we make it an enticing mystery, so it encourages attention, which makes us embarrassed, so we hide it further. It's an awkward sexualisation/ashamed areola shaped circle.

So campaigns like Free the Nipple aren't a joke. Women can't breastfeed their children without hiding under a blanket and profusely apologising. I can't go out in one of those lovely delicate lace bras. Women's bodies aren't normalised. Let's not forget, in certain parts of the world women still can't show their ankles.

It's not necessarily a gendered issue, men need to stop sexualising women's bodies and so do women. Women need to stop believing they are sexualised. Perhaps I need to get over myself and wear one bra to the gym. Or better yet, let's take a leaf from the beautiful breasts of Barcelona beach, where nips are embraced, and bare tits are great tits (#birdpuns).

Normalise nipples. Free the nipple. Nips for one and nips for all.

Soul m8s

Love at first sight? No way. Laughs at first conversation? Just maybe.

Getting older I've learned not to force things. I was a heavy handed child, pulled down a lot of curtain rails, wardrobe rails – I wasn't allowed too near glass. I like to push things to see if they fit. Which, once you're dating, can not only be physically painful, but an emotional waste of time

But it's not only dating, it's friendships too. Sometimes it can be a near enough instant click, a few conversations, a few laughs, a risky joke or two to test their limits – and if they pass? They're in. Solid friendship. Easy peasy.

Other times it takes a little longer, and although you're not a perfect fit, your experiences and mutual respect evolves into an almost family-like love. You could have dropped them if you were really strict about the instant click, but that click is so rare, you might be left with very few friends to choose from.

And then there's the life's-too-short (and so are you) category. When it comes to dating, some of us do require the promise of a little length, whether it's in the duration of the relationship, or the prospective partner's height. You need to be attracted to some aspects of a person to make a relationship work, and sometimes they just don't tick enough boxes.

But it's those instant clicks I'm interested in. I've always been someone to take a long time to bond to people. It's not that I don't trust people, I just don't like opening up to every Tom, Dick and Harry. Hard to get has always been my favourite game. After Words With Friends.

It's happened a few times where I've met people who I've thought "I think this is what they mean by soulmates". Charlotte asks in SATC that they can all be each other's soul mates, and guys are just people to have fun with. But some people are like songs that you hear once and think "oh my god" and you listen to over and over again for years – sugar we're going to be BFFS.

I can think of two people who have become soul mates. One lives further away than my mind finds tangible, and one I've spent less than 12 hours with in my whole life. And yet, I want to talk to them every day, would live with them given half the chance, and miss them with a passion I can't explain.

For me, soul mates are a different kind of friendship. It's someone whom you feel bound to, no matter their location, age, race, gender, fashion sense. They can see you at your emotional and physical worst, and it doesn't matter. Jogging bottoms and toilet roll or tears and travelling; with the right amount of nurturing or WhatsApping an instant click is a click for life.