Like most writers, I live with the critic constantly perched on my shoulder. It takes a lot of writing to shake off the creature and regain some self-belief. I got to this point last week as I wrote myself into a short story and finished it. In the process, I think I found the solution to knocking Mr Critic off his perch: appoint a mentor or two to take his place.
In my case, three mentors helped me through my story. First was Tim Winton, whose stories from The Turning I have read and re-read over the past month. My second mentor was Hemingway, who helped me loosen up when my writing was locked up and taught me to strive not for a perfectly crafted story but for depth of insight and emotion. Thirdly Philip Roth brought me back down to earth with his mix of drama and reflection.
With their books back on the shelves, I am interviewing other prospective mentors to help me redraft my memoir. The front-runners are Anne Manne, Penelope Lively and Orhan Pamuk. As long as The Critic doesn’t get a look-in.
Showing posts with label TIm Winton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label TIm Winton. Show all posts
Monday, July 18, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Boner McPharlin’s Moll
I recently discovered a short story by Tim Winton that blew my socks off. Boner McPharlin’s Moll has the heightened reality and menace of a Flannery O’Connor story, with Winton’s graceful touch. I discovered it in The Australian Long Story, (ed Mandy Sayer, Hamish Hamilton 2009), but it was originally published in The Turning, 2005.
The narrator is a fifteen-year-old girl, Jackie, who gets off with the local bad boy, Boner. He’s been expelled from her high school in a country town. The year is 1970, down to a T, with the boys in their Monaros and Chargers, wearing Levi cords and Dr Scholls. Johnny Farnham is out and David Bowie is in. Jackie accepts a ride in Boner’s car, and from then on their fates unravel.
Jackie has a reputation as Boner McPharlin’s moll, but the reader knows more than her schoolmates about what is really going on. This is a story about innocence and betrayal, about truth and deception. It is moving, harrowing even, and reveals how our actions, however innocent, have consequences. It moves forward on recurring motifs - Boner’s Johnny Reb boots, and his earrings - and springs to life in offhand, deadbeat dialogue. In the last page or two, the mystery lifts and we glimpse the truth. It’s like a punch in the guts for Jackie, and left me reeling.
Unlike most stories, this one is unforgettable. Read it!
The narrator is a fifteen-year-old girl, Jackie, who gets off with the local bad boy, Boner. He’s been expelled from her high school in a country town. The year is 1970, down to a T, with the boys in their Monaros and Chargers, wearing Levi cords and Dr Scholls. Johnny Farnham is out and David Bowie is in. Jackie accepts a ride in Boner’s car, and from then on their fates unravel.
Jackie has a reputation as Boner McPharlin’s moll, but the reader knows more than her schoolmates about what is really going on. This is a story about innocence and betrayal, about truth and deception. It is moving, harrowing even, and reveals how our actions, however innocent, have consequences. It moves forward on recurring motifs - Boner’s Johnny Reb boots, and his earrings - and springs to life in offhand, deadbeat dialogue. In the last page or two, the mystery lifts and we glimpse the truth. It’s like a punch in the guts for Jackie, and left me reeling.
Unlike most stories, this one is unforgettable. Read it!
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