A writer influenced by her Swedish heritage and Yorkshire upbringing
Author: Annika Perry
I’m a versatile writer whose books span across various genres.
My first venture into publishing is "The Storyteller Speaks" and this a collection of short stories, flash fiction and poetry. Published in January 2018 "The Storyteller Speaks" has received over twenty-five glowing reviews on Amazon.
"Oskar’s Quest", my second book, it is a beautifully illustrated children’s book for younger children (and all young at heart!). "Oskar’s Quest" is an engaging story of adventure and courage.
I have also completed one more story for children which is as yet unpublished.
"Island Girl", my first full-length novel, is in its final edits and I’m looking forward to publishing this in due course.
Writing has been a passion since childhood although it is only in the past few years that I have seriously started to write fiction.
Initially, a writing course gave me encouragement and direction with my writing. Furthermore, the tutor recommended blogging and in January 2015 I set up my blog, Annika Perry’s Writing Blog. I never imagined the friendships I would make and I’ve been overwhelmed with the warmth and incredible support from people around the world.
In spring 2014 I won First Prize in a Writing Magazine’s Short Story Competition which was a fantastic surprise and joy. Furthermore, I was short-listed for an Ink Tears Short Story Competition the same year.
The recognition of my writing ability outside of my family and friends was a huge boost to my self-confidence and as a result, I started the mammoth undertaking of writing my first novel.
Meanwhile, in early 2017 I was greatly encouraged by my friends and writers to publish some of my numerous short stories in a book. It was with great excitement and sense of achievement to launch the publication of my first book, "The Storyteller Speaks", in December 2017 with the paperback released in January 2018.
The latter part of 2018 and throughout 2019 was busy with the realisation of a dream project, to publish a children’s book. Like so many parents, my son when young would request a bedtime story. These I tended to make up and a couple became his and my personal favourites. I revisited one of these stories and after much rewriting, editing and finding a wonderful illustrator, "Oskar’s Quest" was ready!
Overall my road to publication has been circuitous and aided by the support of my family and friends.
After gaining my BA Honours Degree in German Language and Literature from the University of Leeds I started working as a journalist. Following a serious illness, I changed career and gained a position as Administration Manager for a busy timber import company. I worked here for many years before leaving to pursue my passion for writing.
I am now a full-time writer, blogger and book reviewer.
I was born in Gothenburg, Sweden and at the age of six, moved to the UK with my family where we settled near Ilkley, West Yorkshire. Since then I have moved many times but now live in a small village in North Essex, England with my husband and occasionally my son, when he returns during university holidays.
I am on the following social media sites and look forward to seeing you there. If you have a specific enquiry please use the form below.
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AnnikaPerry68
Author Website: https://annika-perry-author.com/
Amazon Page: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Annika-Perry/e/B0789NNWFX/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/55576285-annika-perry
Linkedin:https://www.linkedin.com/in/annika-perry-5a9ab8a6/
I almost stepped upon this intact nest as I walked across the garden this morning. Luckily I glanced down and I was struck by its size, touchingly small with miniature eggs resting inside.
What a cosy warm sanctuary the birds had built for their young. The nest itself of a sturdy intricate design had survived the gusts of wind which had dislodged it from the lilac tree and placed it upright onto the ground beneath. Some eggs were already sadly broken but three remained whole. Did they have a chance?
My heart went out to the parent birds who would return only to desperately search for their home. Then there were the neighbourhood cats to worry about – a few keen hunters among them and many times the garden has been littered with the debris of battle; pigeon feathers scattered across the lawn.
I ducked beneath the tree branches and spied the ‘cup’ of criss-crossing branches where the nest had cradled. Gingerly I returned the nest to its proper place. All we can do is wait. Life is fragile, even the journey to it is fraught with danger, with many obstacles in the way.
I’ll keep my fingers crossed for these three eggs – and hope to spot three small chicks soon enough. Unlikely maybe, but not impossible.
U P D A T E – 17th July 2015
Don’t we all wish for the happy ending?
With regards to the nest I discovered last weekend the final outcome will never be quite known. I so would have loved to say the eggs hatched, all well. What has happened is that the nest remained in the tree a few days and then after a stormy night I checked the tree again.
The nest was gone. Everything. No remains around on the ground, amongst the bushes, underneath the shrubs. Yes, I checked everywhere. No eggs, no nest debris. Nothing. It does not look good but I’m slightly baffled by the absolute vanishing act. The nest and its tiny contents touched me and I was so happy to share it with you all.
Many thanks for reading and for your heartfelt comments.
My brain is ensnared. My eyes dart to the bright sunlight and soon my toes tap the floor restlessly, itching to move. Now my body is begging for the the outside, the fresh air, the sun.
Inwardly I simultaneously groan and cheer. The battle is over – work can wait, it’s time for a walk!
Do you ever suffer from the same turmoil? Do you need a walking break now and then? If so, put down your pens, push your keyboards aside and join me as I stride out on a local walk – I’d love your company.
Luckily this is a walk from my doorstep and after a quick stroll past the pretty gardens of the neighbouring houses, I cross the main road. Soon the peace of the countryside surrounds me.
Deftly (I wish!) climbing over the wooden stile, I avoid a rotten board. My sudden squeal of pain surprises even myself as nettles spike my bare legs and I stamp about in a ridiculous fashion as if this would soothe the stinging.
Golden Shades of Wheat field
(Please click on the photos to enlarge them.)
Ahead stretches a vast wheat field. A lush sea of colour, from burnished bronze to light yellow to green of fresh new growth languidly rustle in the breeze. The myriad of golden shades sway back and forth in great swathes, the soft shimmering ripples creating soft music as the full ears of corn move together.
Runway Streaks
In one place two light green parallel lines of wheat stretch far into the distance, as if lighting a runway for planes above. Where did they come from? The mystery buzzes around my mind as I try to spot the crop circles which usually appear as if by magic amongst the golden mass. No such wonder today. They’re always fascinating. Nature’s art. Or is it a small alien landing craft? I smile to myself at my mind’s musings.
In front of me looms my marker; a lone oak tree perfectly outlined against the golden field and the sheer blue sky. On a warm day as today the fully grown tree offers welcome cooling shade.
Lone Oak Tree
Years ago, when my son was young it was a fun obstacle as we chased each other round and round the thick trunk. At first, when I could easily have caught him, I’d ‘stumble’ and let his tiny hands grab my legs. Then when he was older I ran for all my worth until dizziness overtook me. I’d stumble and after letting me think I’m winning my son would catch me, save me. Life’s full circle.
Dry Earth Cracks
A right turn in the path and as I traverse the bone dry ground, carefully stepping between the deep cracks I glimpse the church ahead. Standing alone in its dignity and history. The Medieval and later Tudor addition creating a beautiful serene building. I approach it through the lych gate, the church to my right, the cemetery to my left. Built in 1435, the church is much as it was, with the original Nave, East Window and main heavy wooden double doors all intact.
The lych gate was built in 1919 and was originally the place where corpses lay before being brought into the church, hence the engraving above of ‘Mors Annua Vitae’ – ‘Death is the gateway to life’.
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(Please click on photos to enlarge and to see them in a slideshow.)
I wander around the cemetery, deep in thought, seeking solace for my own losses. Stopping I read an inscription or two. There lies William Beck ‘Gamekeeper to Basil Sparrow Esq’, the gravestone put up by the latter in January 1860 to his ‘courageous and faithful servant who died from wounds caused by the accidental discharge of his gun…’
As I stop at a grave here and there I’ll say out the name out aloud, hoping to honour the person, hoping to revive meaning behind the utterance.
Village cemetery
Writing is never far from me and I scan the names for inspiration for stories or perhaps to find a name to fit in a piece of fiction writing. This was the case with my winning short story, where my main female character’s name was discovered at a cemetery. (By the way, that particular story will soon be featured on my blog.)
I pause at one particular grave. For a baby girl who fleetingly visited this earth for a day. She was born healthy and strong but died seventeen hours later from cot death. I knew her mother well as our sons were best friends and the tragedy shook us all.
So I continue my walk, thoughts drifting on life and death, as always the two intermingled, inevitable.
Walks and thoughts. As I stride across another field I lose my conscious self as an internal discussion rages in my head, this is distilled into peaceful reflections and new ideas swirl into being. As if in a transcendental meditation I wander on and in a shock I discover myself far from my last conscious position. The inner concentration of brain storming so powerful the ‘real’ world takes second place to the inner world. With my brain cleansed, with ideas stored safely for my return, I continue feeling clearer, lighter, brighter. My feelings echo Bill Bryson’s words on walking ‘…you exist in a kind of mobile Zen mode, your brain like a balloon tethered with string, accompanying but not actually part of the body below…’
To my left now is the regal Elizabethan hall with its stunning Georgian front. Now a country home hosting grand weddings it formerly saw Elizabeth I and her retinue as its regular visitors. Built in 1544 with major reconstructions in 1691 and 1715 its features include a spectacular central courtyard.
Georgian Front to the HallTudor Back to Hall (formerly the front)
I remember the lovely afternoon one Sunday when it opened for visitors and it felt a wonder to be served scones and tea in such special surroundings. One Christmas the local primary school children walked up to the hall and enjoyed lunch in the ornate wooden banqueting hall. Overawed the pupils were silenced – for a moment. Imagine, eating in the former residence of King Louis VXII and his wife and their 350 courtiers!
Hall Courtyard
By now sweltering from the heat I welcome the shade from the avenue of trees heading back to the village centre. The wind sweeps along the straight and gently caresses my tired legs. Treading on the road I am still astonished at its surface, the one originally laid by American troops during World War Two, as it led to the local airfield. It must have endured so much heavy traffic in those few years alone but is still going strong.
It was many years before the USA Airforce left the area I’m reminded as I halt by the memorial plaque of an American pilot killed as his plane crashed into the village playing field in 1963. As the F100 Super Saber jet developed an engine fault Col Wendell Kelly heroically chose to stay with the plane to ensure it avoided the local school. When certain the plane would crash away from civilians he did eject, but too late to save his own life. Recently a 50th commemoration service in his honour was held in the village and it was lovely that his daughter and other family members from America could attend.
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The very same playing field in use today by children and adults, for football matches, cricket matches, fetes. For years I watched my son and his friends charge across the sun-scorched grass, heading full pelt towards the playground. More sedately I walk towards the shop, the field quiet and empty as I recall the yelps of joy as the children were let out of class.
I’m here now. At the local shop, which is run by a team of dedicated volunteers. Time for a break. What will you have? Tea? Coffee? Ice-cream? Yes, I’ll take one of those thank you. Let’s sit out on the table. Yes, just that one there, the one with the red geranium precariously standing on it.
Village pavillion with local shop tucked next to it
Now silence, peace. Time to be thankful. Time to reflect. Tired my legs ache for a rest. Refreshed my fingers itch to write. Alert my brain is brimming with new ideas and plans. I’m off home and back to my writing.
The final stretch of the walk takes me through the dappled shade of the Nature Reserve. Once a gravel quarry it has been developed since the 1960s into a local area of beauty with three large lakes and rich woodland. A bench beckons by the water’s edge but determined I go on my way, greeting the ducks who are paddling near by. I’ll be back later with some bread later, I promise them. At last I spy the house located only a few metres from the Nature Reserve and again marvel at the ideal location.
One of the lakes at the Nature ReserveFelled tree in Nature Reserve
Well, the walk is over and I want to thank you for joining me. I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have.
‘Solvitur and ambulando – it is solved by walking.’
It’s not often I reblog but I came across this from Lucile De Godoy’s which profoundly touched me, leaving me in a contemplative mood on a quiet Sunday afternoon. Wishing you all a lovely day.
I had yoga, plus reading and commenting on blogs, for breakfast.
Catching up on blogs I appreciate, brought me coincidently(?) to the same question, which served me well to kick off another week.
The question I like to ask myself and others: have we find our talent, passion, dreams and purpose, and do we let it live? Or are we following another life path?
This self-assured first novel is a psychological thriller centred around a film critic called Dorian Cook. The book fluctuates between 12-year-old Dorian in the steamy days of 1976 and present-day disillusioned failing film-critic Dorian. Into his current miserable life a threat from the past slowly wrecks havoc on his life and on the lives of his childhood friends.
In this tightly constructed novel, the story simmers throughout, the tension tangible but not glaringly obvious at the start. This slow-burner effect is highly effective for the most part, especially when serious plot twists are revealed with disarming execution. If you are looking for a constant fast-paced book this might not be for you as Andrew Lowe takes time to create detailed characters and settings.
The summer of 1976 is brilliantly captured and as a young child in the 70s I could easily relate to the mood and atmosphere of the time. Likewise the brooding cynicism of current day film journalism seems utterly plausible and this should come as no surprise as some of the settings and situations are, according to the writer, semi-autobiographical.
The main character Dorian Cook is a flawed and unsympathetic character and even when he is a child I could feel nothing but disdain for him and his friends who are portrayed in equally uncompromising terms. Having said that they are well written, sketched in fine detail through ‘showing’ and not ‘telling’ and as the book progressed I became accustomed not to having to support or identify with any one specific character in the book.
The one aspect of the book that I struggled with to start with was its slow pace and progression of the story, however I quickly understood that this was deliberate and central element to the novel. In the midst of the ordinary, the extraordinarily unnervingly unfolds, with the horrific quietly introduced in between the banality of life. On numerous occasions this would cause me to stop and reread a paragraph to make sure I hadn’t misunderstood exactly what was happening. At times I felt myself bordering on confusion before I was pulled onto the road of shocked comprehension.
I cannot say too much about the story line of the book as this would easily reveal too much, however the boys as young play a prank on a fellow school pupil, I hesitate to use the word friend. A prank that goes wrong and now reconnects the three friends as the consequences of that day return to haunt them.
‘The Ghost’ is an unusual book, not your run by the mill thriller and not at all what I expected. It’s very well-written and it delivers on character, setting and plot, with the tension mounting incrementally. Every time I went to put the book aside I felt that ‘just one more chapter’ tug.
Rating: 4 out of 5 stars.
I am a member of Netgalley
Publisher: Matador
Publish Date: 28th June 2015 – ie. now available!
Paperback Price: £ 9.99 (amazon quoted prices)
Kindle Price: £ 1.99 (amazon quoted prices)
‘We need a full inner well to write from. Sometimes life empties the well. That’s not failure, or the end. It’s a promise that there will be something new to write about when the well is refilled.’
No doubt we’ve all set ourselves deadlines in our writing goals. Some may even come attached with a mental forfeit. Not many can be as extreme as the one Oliver Sacks set himself over fifty years ago when writing his first book.
To complete it within ten days or failing that kill himself.
Spurred into action he wrote at times twenty hours a day and on the tenth day he handed in ‘Migraine’ to Fabers in London. The writing turned to joy and the threat dissipated by a sense of elation.
Writing has been an integral part of his life and besides his numerous books, amongst them the famous ‘Awakenings’ which was made into a film starring the brilliant late Robin Willaims, he also uses notebooks compulsively.
Oliver Sacks writes non-stop, taking note-books with him wherever he goes, often pausing to jot down notes. There he is, resting his notepad on a car-roof, scribbling away. Over there, standing still at a train station, pen and paper in hand, oblivious to the huge swirl of the crowds parting around him and his briefcase which stands abandoned for his feet.
Altogether Sacks reckons he has filled over a thousand notebooks. He calls these an ‘indispensable form of talking to myself’ and that they were not written to be read by others, nor does he read them himself.
‘The act of writing is itself enough; it serves to clarify thoughts and feelings.’
Reading these words it was as if a long-lingering dark cloud has lifted from me and in a few single puffs of words my intermittent anxiety regarding my own collection of notebooks has faded.
Stashed safely in two bed boxes, their weight alone threatening the thin chip board base, the notebooks have rarely seen daylight since the day they were filled. On a few nostalgic moments I’ve retrieved the odd one and snuggled in bed, relived a few days of my youth, dipped into past loves, sorrows, tragedies, read a few words of innocent dramatic musings written in my childish scrawl.
Otherwise they lay there, untouched. By no means reaching Oliver Sacks’s thousand, but near a hundred notebooks and I had wondered, why? Why did I bother? What should I do with them?
Now I am reassured. I can face a contented security that this is normal, whatever normal means. To scribble away, to put away. These inner thoughts, emotions, a creative conversation within myself, an outpouring of energy that helped in the moment and helped to form myself. To create and re-create myself. At times two hours would disappear in frenzied writing and as I emerged with aching fingers and blurred vision my soul and mind felt purged, as thoughts and ideas became vivid and crystal clear.
Each notebook is precious, from the smallest, earliest one at 2 x 4 cm in a golden hardback flip case, to the largest, latest lurid pink ‘blott’ notebook. From misspelt words, feelings, lists, to ideas on life, friends, boyfriends and politics, I scribbled away. Not forgetting the dreams…those dream entries still freak me out. Once for two weeks I kept a dream diary and as early morning writing turned into the next morning, the dreams seemed so ominous and fantastic, too real. My sleep suffered and finally I had to stop.
Nowadays I find one notebook alone does not suffice and so I work around four different journals, each assigned a specific topic.
My traditional black hardboard notebook is full of observations of life around me, conversations overheard in shops, description of particularly striking people spotted whilst out shopping, of interesting signposts, newspaper articles.
Another hardback journal is white with the loud and proud words of ‘Hold on People I’m having an Idea’ plastered across the whole front cover. In here I write down story ideas, some are merely a sentence long, whilst others stretch over pages.
The blue one with a blue elastic band serves as my book journal; in here I jot down notes on books I’m reviewing as well as books I have read and ones I intend to buy.
Finally I write in a smaller beautiful multicoloured notebook with a magnetic flip front fastening. Unusually this was not a gift as most of my journals have been (I’m easy to buy presents for!) but I acquired this myself in Cambridge years ago and for a while it was left unattended as I felt it was too special to write in. Finally I decided to use it for the funny wise sayings of my son. Keen observations of the world that were uttered with startling clarity, seeing things anew only as they young can, and in the process reigniting the novelty of life for weary adults.
How could I resist this kind offer made by my son when he still very young! Reckon I didn’t take the money!
‘You should be a home-author. You can write stories for me whilst I’m at school. You don’t have to publish them. If they’re good I’ll give you 10p.’
I must not forget my mslexia dairy, full of blog notes, story ideas, competitions, quotes (plus of course school trips, doctor visits, birthdays…)
I approach each new notebook with the same eager anticipation I experienced in my childhood. The blank pages bursting with promise and expectation, so empty and free. With almost religious zeal I will flip through the pages, imaging the outpourings that might fill their bleak space. A feeling felt as keenly now as when a child and many a notebook will start with very similar feelings to these written seven years ago in a new gold-leaf edged notebook given to me by a life-long friend.
‘Monday 12th October 2008 Always such a great responsibility – marking that very first page. All pristine, empty of thoughts and emotions, now to be scarred forever, must be something special methinks, of particular value. … Once again I trust I will keep with it, once again I say for my sanity, once again I say, let’s see where it leads.’
Recently Oliver Sacks seems to have been everywhere I’ve turned; his latest autobiography reviewed in papers and online and convinced I bought ‘On the Move: A Life’ for my Dad for Father’s Day (hint to Dad: Please hurry up and read quickly – I want to borrow it!)
Then reading about the life of Oliver Sacks I discovered his addiction to notebooks and its absolute and phenomenal impact on his life This face reassured me about the sanity of writing these, holding on to them, for no particular reason but for their very being. I hope you too might find this of consolation.
I am sure many of you write and keep notebooks. I would love to hear from you about them. What topics are covered? Are they gifts or self-bought? Do you reread them often or let them rest in peace?
Finally, of course it does not just have to be notebooks. As Oliver Sacks said, ‘The need to think on paper is not confined to notebooks. It spreads onto the backs of envelopes, menus, whatever scraps of paper are at hand.’
As I have only been blogging for a few months I was most pleasantly surprised and honoured to be nominated for this award.
THE ENCOURAGING THUNDER AWARD
My warm thanks to Marge of Kyrosmagica for nominating me.
She can be found at https://kyrosmagica.wordpress.com/ and I highly recommend you visit her interesting blog. Marge is now working on her second novel and is currently seeking a publisher for her first middle grade/YA book. She writes about ‘books, crystals, laughter and much much more…’ I love her passion for life, books, writing and travel. On my first visit to her site I was struck by the series of beautiful quotes on her about page. Go and take a look!
Thunder?!
Hmm..I feel I’m less thunder with my blogs but more of a ripple in a large large lake. I have one in mind.
Over thirty kilometres in length stretching towards the massive waterfall that feeds it. On the eastern slope fir trees cling precariously onto the steep side, at times horizontal to the water below.
A long winding road is found to the west of the lake, at times so close to the waters edge it is as if you could reach out of the open window and skim your hands across the calm surface. Watching the ripples gently vibrate out and away.
That’s how I feel when I started this blog. My first post caused a tiny ripple of water that soon stopped. Then with time the impact of the posts spread slightly further and soon intermingled with other ripples, crossing, recrossing each other, interweaving, interconnecting.
Enough of the whimsical reflections…back to the award.
‘Thunder creates a powerful addition to the blog as an awesome blog award. Raymond, encouraginglife.co founder, was bestowed upon a thunder medallion by the great nature so he can create a powerful spell Encouraging Thunder to grant powerful protection to other bloggers. It’s a special spell that only bloggers who has true purpose in their life can master it.’
‘As other bloggers are granted the power of thunder, he or she has the permission to post the power of thunder on their blogs as well as sharing the award with other bloggers.’
With the Encourage Thunder award you can
Post it on your blog
Grant other blogs
The dos and donts of the award are:
Do not
Abuse or misuse the logo
Claim that it is your own handmade logo
Do
Enjoy the award
At least give thanks via comments and likes and or mentioning the blogger who gives the award.
Without further ado, I nominate the following blogs. Please take them in the spirit they are given, recognition and enjoyment by myself of your posts.
Welcome to my final (slightly delayed) photographs for this challenge. Yes, you read correctly, for this post one photograph was just not enough to tell the story, so you’re in for a treat of six or so, some of which are over seventy years old so please forgive the quality.
Firstly, the rules are as follows:
‘Post a photo each day for five consecutive days, and tell a story about each photo. The story can be truth or fiction, poetry or prose. Each day one must also nominate a fellow blogger to participate in the challenge.’
Day 5. Iron Men and Wooden Boats
I tell my son his roots go back to the island where my mother was born, to the island where his great-grandparents were born and lived all their lives. I tell him that the he is as strong as the granite rocks that their house was built on. Then, looking at these photos today I think I need to add an addendum to this statement. His soul is part of the sea fished by his fore-fathers all their lives.
My grandfather went out fishing at the age of 14, before than he regularly helped out on the boats.
This was the time when fishing was brutal and dangerous. A time when you had to be tough physically and mentally. My cousins, a few who are professional fishermen today, readily concede they work in relative comfort and safety, with their warm spacious cabins, kitchen and dining area and a bridge worthy of a Nasa spacecraft.
No such luxury for my grandfather. No heavy duty machinery to help with the lifting, just a basic winch. The physical work was unbelievably hard and raw, for days out fishing in the cold winters of the North Sea only to return to cramped conditions below deck.
And yet, these were some of the happiest days for my grandfather. Isn’t that wonderful? Life at its simplest, most basic, living every moment to the full, every second counting and the whole experience creating close camaraderie between the fishermen.
A museum on one island displays the history of the local fishing over the past two centuries and they have recreated the inside of one such typical boat which my grandfather owned. Talking to his great-grandchildren whilst going around the museum I saw my grandfather’s eyes shine with happiness and then glaze over with memories of time passed, people passed. His words intense, burning their vitality onto our brain.
He spoke of days spent out at sea and once, landing with a catch in Aberdeen, only to send a telegram to his wife, no, he would not be back just yet. The fishing was again so good the following week, that there was another telegram advising of a delay in returning home and then out they sailed from Aberdeen, heading to the sea and to the herring. Four weeks later he returned home to face a few seconds of scolding from my grandmother, followed by her and the children’s joyous love and hugs.
÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷
I would like to nominate Jo at https://restlessjo.wordpress.com to carry on this challenge. I hope she enjoys the challenge as much as I am and look forward to seeing her photographs / writing posts!
I want to thank you all for following me on this 5 day photo challenge, which has been inspiring and led me down writing and memory paths I would not have taken otherwise.
Finally, I would like to give special thanks to my mother for the title of this post. Stuck for ideas I gave her a call and she immediately gave me this title; something she thought of many years ago to describe her father and his fellow fishermen.
Fetch your duvet now! Don’t forget your mittens, scarfs and bobble hats! Now are you ready for one of this years best books? Prepare yourself as you head into the dark frozen world of remotest Alaska.
‘The Quality of Silence’ begins innocuously enough as Yasmin and her daughter, Ruby, both from the UK, land in Fairbanks, Alaska. They are en route to meet her husband, Matt who as a wildlife film photographer, is working in the far north of Alaska.
Immediately on landing Yasmin learns that a catastrophic incident has killed her husband. Yasmin refuses to accept this and despite protestations from the police she is prepared to go to any lengths to find him.
Yasmin and Ruby, a deaf but highly intelligent 10-year-old, join a truck driver heading North where temperatures regularly plummet to below 50 degrees centigrade and where darkness is the winter norm. Soon Yasmin finds herself in charge of the rig and the search for Matt proves dangerous not only because of the conditions but also because of a mysterious threatening truck driver following them.
As the venture continues the quest becomes not just one for Matt but also develops into a search for herself, for the woman and mother she is and wants to be, for the memories of the love and relationship with Matt; the very ones she realises she now wants to rediscover.
This is a story as piercing as the wind, as relentless as the hurricane, as sharp as the ice all around them.
Ruby’s experiences are evocatively and lyrically narrated in the first person. Her close fun-loving relationship with her father shines as a beacon throughout the book. I love the chapter beginnings of Ruby’s twitter messages where, on her father’s urgings, she writes how words feel, taste and look to her, the closest way she has to relating to meaning of words.
One such feed reads:
‘EXCITEMENT: Tastes like space dust & popping bubble gum; feels like the thud-bump of a plane landing; looks like the big furry hood of Dad’s Inupiaq parka.’
Furthermore through Ruby, who has ‘listened’ intently to her father’s life in Alaska, we learn of the inuits, their lives, the stunning Alaskan nature.
Yasmin’s story is in the third person but no less intimate. Her biggest fear has been of Ruby’s non-integration into society as her daughter’s refusal to vocalise words has become a battleground between Yasmin and Matt.
On a national level we learn of the attacks against the energy companies as eco-warriors use at times ferocious methods to thwart the the companies who believe they have an innate right to drill and frack in Alaska.
Lupton deftly weaves all these strands into an intense high-octane adventure. As Ruby increasingly finds her own unique voice, the reader is drawn further into the darkness, fear and despair. Nothing is quite what it seems.
I read this book in two days. Whilst I hate the overused term ‘unputdownable’; this book was exactly that. With good intentions I would close the book, returning it to the table before deciding no, I would read just one more chapter.
As I was enthralled and gripped by Lupton’s first novel, ‘Sister’, I had high hopes for this book. It did not disappoint but rather surpassed my expectations.
It has been an honour to be able to review this book. So do buy it, read it and be immersed. Oh, but don’t forget to make a hot chocolate before you start reading. You’ll need it.
I am a member of NetGalley.
Book Rating:
Publisher: Little Brown
Publish date: 2nd July 2015
Price: Hardback: £ 13.48 (amazon quoted prices)
Kindle: £ 5.03 (amazon quoted prices)
‘A woman is like a tea bag – you can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.’
I am currently taking part in the 5 Photos – 5 days challenge after being nominated by Dorne from https://dorneawhale.wordpress.com. Below is my photo and writing for Day 4, inspired by this photo of a frost-coated spider’s web.
Firstly, the rules are as follows:
‘Post a photo each day for five consecutive days, and tell a story about each photo. The story can be truth or fiction, poetry or prose. Each day one must also nominate a fellow blogger to participate in the challenge.’
Day 4. Nana’s Web
‘Are you sure, Alicia?’ asks Nana dubiously, maintaining the steady rhythm of her crochet needle, then pausing for a moment as she studies my childish conviction.
‘Yes, Nana, please, let me try,’ I plead, leaning over her handiwork and studying the fine web design.
‘It’s just you’ve never shown any inclination to crochet before.’
Even I realise the truth of her observation, as the eight-year-old me is either deep into a book, playing football outside or creating adventures for my barbie dolls inside. My bike is my freedom and I think I know the little French village we now live better than anyone in my family.
‘I do want to learn though,’ I say, smiling my toothless grin which never fails!
‘Fetch my handicraft case then.’
Happily I scuttle to the spare room where my grandparents are sleeping during their visit to us. Like a leech I have stuck to their sides since their arrival. With them in the house they are making the strange and frightening all the more familiar, I just don’t want them to go, for the strangeness to return.
Back on the sofa I snuggle next to Nana, hip to hip, the two of us, legs tucked up and to the side. She hands me the unfamiliar tool and picking up another I hold them at the end and I start tapping them together as if they were toy drumsticks. I feel a shudder of frustration by my side and calmly Nana replaces the needle in my left hand to her case, her frown transforming into a smile.
‘Here, like this,’ she says, taking my right hand in hers and placing my finger towards the curved end of the needle. Next she loops the fine thread onto my fingers of my other hand and then she guides me to crochet! I am actually crocheting and with her hands now patiently showing mine what to do I manage a few patterns. Her spoken instructions drift like feathers upon my skin, soft, gentle, ticklish but unfathomable as I am awed by the magic I’m creating.
I settle down next to Nana and crochet. She’s always so at peace and content when crocheting, even though she works at lightening speed. I want to be like that and I try very hard, but it’s a slow arduous task. Raising the thread to her mouth Nana nips it off and with a swift twist round her finger she has finished. One more table cloth with its delicate beautiful design is put onto the table with the others. Crocheting was something I wanted to do so badly, honestly. I thought I could do it, but it will take weeks, months, years. I will not concede…too quickly.
So I crochet; all the time looking at Nana’s wondrous creations, the finest threads looped into amazing patterns. All from her mind. That is magic to me. I look at my rough work, then at her art. My head drops a few more angles and quiet sigh follows quiet sigh.
Suddenly the door-bell rings and my friend enters, calling out my name.
‘Nana…’ I start to say.
‘Alicia, you go and have fun with your friend,’ she replies, placing my handiwork onto her lap.
‘Thanks, see you later and I’ll finish it later,’ I promise. A promise I know and Nana knows I will never fulfil. She won’t mind and knowing Nana she will have rescued my first attempt and completed it by the time I’m home. That’s just who she is!
I would like to nominate Esther at https://esthernewtonblog.wordpress.com to carry on this challenge. I realise this is not her usual type of posts but if she has the time I know we would all enjoy reading her writings and seeing her photos. If she decides to go ahead, I hope she enjoys the challenge as much as I am and look forward to seeing her photographs / writing posts!
I am currently taking part in the 5 Photos – 5 days challenge after being nominated by Dorne from https://dorneawhale.wordpress.com. Below is my photo and writing for Day 3.
Firstly, the rules are as follows:
‘Post a photo each day for five consecutive days, and tell a story about each photo. The story can be truth or fiction, poetry or prose. Each day one must also nominate a fellow blogger to participate in the challenge.’
Day 3. The White Wonder
On their dainty stalks a generation of white poppies stood proud amongst the roses. Whilst some crumpled with age, their white petals curling into brown ragged decay, this pristine poppy shone in its peaceful perfect serenity.
As it quivered, almost whimsically in the breeze, I studied the petals further, furtively stroking one between my thumb and fore-finger. Art classes at Primary School came to mind and the oft used crepe-paper with its ruffled texture. Each petal over-lapped with its neighbour and in such symmetry they formed the exquisite bowl. A bold splotch marked each petal, a gentle bruise which was as if dabbed on by a child’s hand and the aqueous paint seeped unevenly upwards.
The burnished bronze stamen hovered in the centre with its almost comically bald top. Just then a bee in lumbering lethargic flight landed in the poppy and frantically, manically it bustled its way round and round the stamen. At such an awkward side-ways angle the bee at times tipped backwards before it recovered on its single-minded task.
What a gift from nature! Sublime artistry which touched my soul and that white poppy has well and truly nudged its way into my heart.
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I would like to nominate Sue at http://scvincent.com who regularly posts such stunning photos and beautiful lyrical writing to carry on this challenge. I hope she enjoys the challenge as much as I am and look forward to seeing her photographs / writing posts!
Annika Perry 