Submarine, Joe Dunthorne

“One of the things I have discovered is that, although my father’s beard looks ginger from a distance, when you get close up it is in fact a subtle blend of black, blond and strawberry.
I have also learnt that my parents have not had sex in two months. I monitor their intimacy via the dimmer switch in their bedroom. I know when they have been at it because the next morning the dial will still be set to half way.”

Oliver Tate is 15. He is abnormally preoccupied with his parents’ marital relations, determined to lose his virginity before he turns 16, and has a girlfriend who can do some very clever things with matches. Oliver is fond of new words, translucent skin, and will happily feed rat poison to your dog if he thinks it will 'safeguard' your long-term emotional stability.

Joe Dunthorne has a real flair for language, splattering the pages with one-liners and odd observations, as gleaned from the delightfully skewed mind of a protagonist whose mixture of intelligence and immaturity is best served in the guise of a teenage boy. Oliver can pen witty diary entries to appease his girlfriend (crafting delicious parodies of Adrian Mole), yet remain stubbornly oblivious to notions of tact, subtlety, and common sense. Misadventures and grievous errors are sure to ensure.

Consistently funny without ever feeling too forced, the narration far outshines the plot, which is a little random and not as compelling as Oliver’s observational nuggets. This is a novel perhaps best enjoyed in small segments, for as witty as Oliver’s precisely phrased narration is, the resulting detachment can feel a bit chilly at times. Indeed, Dunthorne’s protagonist is curiously reminiscent of Mark Haddon’s infamous autistic narrator (also a fifteen year old boy). It is the sort of deadpan delivery that is initially striking but can feel a bit oppressive if you don’t take a break after a chapter or two.

Despite its teeny tiny shortcomings, Submarine remains an impressively assured debut from a very promising new(ish)* talent.

*(It was published last year, so shame on me for taking so long to find it.)

Drink in a tasty cup of word coffee

Greetings fellow Fringe fans; I return from my brief but fun-filled travels (cut short by icky hot weather) and have thrown myself into the choppy waters of the publishing world once more – or, to be a tad more accurate, I am trying to dive back into them in what, admittedly, has become my rather badly timed job hunting adventure.

My frenzied rummaging around the interweb has thrown up all sorts of little treasures in regards to independent publishers and relevant news pieces in general, amongst which I discovered a slick little outfit dubbed Bookkake, a self proclaimed ‘new’ type of publisher of ‘transgressive literature’ which appears to have an erotic bent. They use a handy-looking outfit called Lightning Source to print on-demand, when (and only when) someone orders a title. Sounds like good idea in terms of minimising waste/saving some trees and not being burdened with a costly warehouse of books to push onto already chock-full market.

I later stumbled upon another piece of oldish news – a magical photocopier that squeezes out whole books in minutes. The Espresso Book Machine has been winging their way around the US/Canada/Australia for a while now, but only made their UK debut at the London Book Fair last week, so this is shiny and new to me.

So what does all this speedy book making mean? For one, obscure and out-of-print titles can find their way back into the hands of those who want them, plus it also means smaller presses can hopefully continue doing what they do best; publishing riskier titles which range from the sublime to the shocking, keeping that door to a viable future propped open for niche markets.

This potential freedom may also open up the way for almost endless choice, which bodes less well for new writers yearning for that big break, as one would imagine it’s trickier to get your voice heard in over a increasingly noisy rabble, no matter how fresh or dazzling that voice might be. But then if your heart is still pure and you’re not in it for the money or the glory anyway, there’s nothing new to fear.

Next week: the dirty world of self-publishing

post-Soviet splendour

For an agonisingly long stretch of time I’ve been saving all my pennies in order to explore some of the former Eastern bloc. So, in light of my imminent departure I thought it might be fitting to drop a few photographical delights in place of my usual scribbling:

Richtung Berlin/A Soviet Legacy/41 Gymnasia, Angus Boulton

Russia, Andrew Moore

Motherland, Simon Roberts

Soviet Roadside Bus Stops, Christopher Herwig

And for those who can’t stand that sort of thing, I bring you... Absence of Water, courtesy of Gigi Cifali.

My apologies for not adding any fake commentary; I’m currently in the middle of pre-packing adventures (today it’s jotting down those essential phrases I’ll probably never use). So, just in case anyone out there gets their kicks from examining the linguistic nuances between Belarusian, Russian and Ukrainian, here’s a phrase I’ll sadly never get to use, translated by Omniglot into all three tongues:

Мой паветраны човен поўны вуграмі

Моё судно на воздушной подушке полно угрей

Моє судно на повітряній подушці наповнене вуграми

Um, so yes... feel enlightened.

Digital Delights (?)

Good news folks - Little White Lies (arguably the most lust-inducing film magazine currently in circulation) has unleashed their sexy new digital edition. Granted, nothing can beat curling up somewhere comfy and browsing through its art-filled pages at leisure, but for those who are too poor to fork out for the pages themselves (or a hefty overseas postage cost), the next best thing can be lapped up here. There's also some nifty link action that hooks you up with selected clips and trailers. You won't be able to wallpaper your living room with the digital pages, but perhaps that's for the best... and er, good for the environment, innit.

The Horror

I'm not a massive TV fan, yet I've seen enough to have noticed that the UK we're used to being treated to a barrage of offensive advertising (apparently only women have digestive problems, all of which can be treated easily - and discreetly - by buying some tablets... rather than the glaringly obvious ploy of eating proper food. Except it's not really discreet because these ads lead one to assume that any woman you see on the street is silently suffering from either constipation, diarrhoea, or that good old fashioned 'bloated feeling'). We are also graced with some cheery awareness ads:

At present, there's a man who forgot to THINK! and is consequently being haunted by a ghoul-kid in the latest instalment of the consistently chilling 'kill your speed' series. Fair enough, he's earned it. Slick as these ads are, mostly you're left thinking 'ah, clever' and brush it off; they have yet to seep into my unconscious and into my dreams.

But guess what did? A dated-looking and decidedly non-slick Stroke (act FAST!) ad. It makes you squirm not only because it's nasty, but also because the NHS budget is clearly not as impressive as that of the DfT (or so they at least have to let us believe). Anyway, last night I had a truly heart-pounding nightmare where not only did my local cinema relocate itself, leaving me skulk along dark streets to find it, but once there my friend proceeded to emit strange sounds - I look to see what's going on only to be confronted with a whole new version of the Scary Face, as featured in aforementioned ad. Needless to say, the words 'must save as much as a person as I can' were spinning frantically through my mind, but alas, as in all dreams, not even a whimper could escape my lips. No one called 999, and I didn't even get a chance to fetch a glass of water (I know they don't mention it in the ad, but for some odd reason it seemed like a good idea in the dream). I then awoke, traumatised and scarred with a fear that everyone I have ever known is going to have a stroke every day and night for the rest of my life.

If nothing else, it's an interesting example of a not-so-well-put-together ad being more effective (by which I mean horrifying) than its more classically well made cousins. Maybe that's why it works?

Spinning plates vs. eating ashes: the joy and the anguish

Ah, the rollercoaster world of The Writer; perilous, torturous, and (hopefully) gifted with the occasional smattering of giddy, sentence-spinning glee.

Being a hideously lazy waste of space, I'm not, nor ever will be, a 'writer'. At best, I'm 'someone who sometimes writes things that I don't have to'. Every now and then I'll wonder how I managed to spend all of Saturday's glorious daylight hours in front of my computer, churning out what only amounts to a couple of pages worth of shite, but most of the time I'm engaged in far less noble endeavours, like, I dunno, reading the paper, or the back of a cereal packet (good god, that’s a lotta sugar).

Today I stumbled across yet another fascinating Guardian piece (they should probably start paying me for all this unsolicited promo): 'Writing for a living: a joy or a chore?' and thought it might be nice to share it with you all, just in case anyone else out there might feel vaguely heartened that it's okay not be overwhelmed with frantic ecstasy with every word they type.

Here's someone else saying what I was trying to say, only with a lot more eloquence and authority:

"I get great pleasure from writing, but not always, or even usually. Writing a novel is largely an exercise in psychological discipline – trying to balance your project on your chin while negotiating a minefield of depression and freak-out. Beginning is daunting; being in the middle makes you feel like Sisyphus; ending sometimes comes with the disappointment that this finite collection of words is all that remains of your infinitely rich idea. Along the way, there are the pitfalls of self-disgust, boredom, disorientation and a lingering sense of inadequacy, occasionally alternating with episodes of hysterical self-congratulation as you fleetingly believe you've nailed that particular sentence and are surely destined to join the ranks of the immortals, only to be confronted the next morning with an appalling farrago of clichés that no sane human could read without vomiting. But when you're in the zone, spinning words like plates, there's a deep sense of satisfaction and, yes, enjoyment…" (Hari Kunzru)