You’ll be sorry when I’m dead by Marieke Hardy
October 4th 2011 13:00
I close the book and feel the overwhelming urge to write words for the rest of my life. I know, I think triumphantly in my post-awesome-book-daze, I’ll write a blog post reviewing this book. NO, I’ll tweet about it, but first I’ll write a novel and send it to her! NO! WAIT! STOP THE PRESS! SHUT UP BRAIN.
I’m talking about my literary lady hero Marieke Hardy, the author of the book I am about to review (or something to that effect). Thanks to a chance encounter with Ms Hardy, who signed my copy of the book and wrote her email, promising to send me her designer political left-wing clothing range, I can send her these words and see if I get a ‘right of reply’ (this is something Hardy allows the people she writes about, to do in her book, a clever way of saying 'Hey! These people I'm talking about are not fictional! They're three dimensional AND have sufficient literacy skills, hazzah!')
My Book Review
---
I recently saw Spinal Tap for the first time (I know, took me long enough). There’s that famous scene where he explains how the amp goes up to 11 instead of the usual 10. Why? Because there’s nowhere left to go at 10. So these amps go up to 11*. This is exactly the effect rendered on readers of You’ll be sorry when I’m dead.
There you are, cruising at 11 the whole way through each chapter and thinking, ‘Where can this possibly go from here? How can she top that last chapter?’ Then she does. She hits 12, out of nowhere, running at full speed, like a nude streaker bringing elation to bored footballers everywhere.
Here is the official description of the book from Allen and Unwin, two dudes who decided to publish the book:
Throughout the tome, I was either sympathising with unabashed enthusiasm, nodding violently at each page’s turn, seeing life affirmations I had come to live by in such abundance, I had to double check that I had not written the book myself, before arriving at the sobering conclusion that I had not. At other passages I would pause, mouth agape, scrambling to try and fathom the brutal honesty of these stories, unable to relate at all. I could, however, relate to the various passages about meeting your heroes, those heroes you have an inexplicable adoration for, consuming their work with a kind of 'greedy lust' as she describes.
I met Marieke at her book launch where I made a 'clever' quip about her signing my book with my Twitter name (‘eh, eh? *nudges someone*). I then noticed in mild shock that she not only recognised me but seemed excited to meet ME claiming that she loved meeting people from Twitter and that she saw my tweets and found them 'FUNNY.' Who me? This old dress? etc.
This coming from the woman who made ME laugh all throughout my university years, from the very same lady who taught Younger Writing Student Sheree (basically a poorer and thinner version of me now), that writing was a profession, albeit an awkward one, but a legitimate profession all the same. I finally saw the path of penned righteousness, concluding that writer-hood was laden with pitfalls and criticism and occasional stalkers, but that above all it was a profession in its entirety, riddled with small pockets of success and a respectable level of alcoholism (see chapter ten, Down the hatch). It was a career I became determined to conquer. And now here we are, reading this on my blog. Well done, Shezballs, success is just around the corner.
The experience of reading this book can be likened to the experience of drinking expensive gin. It goes down a little too smoothly, followed by fits of giggles, a few comradely tears, high fiving yourself in agreement at the lyrical prose, falling asleep with it half open on your face, waking up and remembering that one line you loved about weeping for your 20s, a hazy blur from the night before and then just like that, it's over in a heartbeat and you think, why couldn't it be a thousand/billion pages long? And the bartender won't serve you anymore of that glorious gin and you shake your tiny fist at him and say 'I'll be back!' (I realise this metaphor has gone on long enough but bear with me).
So when it's well and truly over, all that’s left is a confounded little you, attempting to pin point the exact moment you felt your heart break. This book will try to break your heart if you let it, because it's a hilariously poignant, devastatingly well thought out collection of essays that come together in such a vivid manner, like watching the hazy silhouette of the characters dancing on the page right in front of you. The next thing you know you’re drunk and you could have sworn that Bob Ellis the human was there in the room with you, as he frowns and storms out, such is the power of Marieke’s evocative descriptions. /End scene on my extended metaphor.
Of course, the heart break continues with the painstakingly beautiful and cherished passages about her best friend’s battle with cancer, the loss of a faux-child and the nostalgia for that period of our 20s that are meant to last forever. Unexpectedly I felt my heart tie itself into little knots at the section where Marieke gets to know her own hero Bob Ellis and he redeems himself in a fiery blaze of glory. I don't know why but that chapter really stuck with me. Maybe I can relate to it, having named my camera after my own old man writer hero (Chomsky Canon 550D).
Perhaps this makes no sense at all if you haven't read the book, or if you haven't encountered any of Marieke's work thus far in your life (FOR SHAME!) Never mind. You’ll just have to do so.
Each story weaves a narrative that loosely translates a young woman's life and her relationships before tying it all together at the end and calling it a day. Marieke has put herself out there with her writing for years now, but this in-depth book only succeeds in revealing that we knew nothing about her all along, that this too, is only a slight glimpse into her bizarre-o world. Written like a love song or an ode to all things woeful and wonderful, Marieke is brash, unashamed, frank and painfully honest. Her stare-off with a small baby had me chuckling for a good minute.
She writes that meeting your heroes is difficult because we keep them at arm’s length and never see their true human side. Marieke Hardy goes one step above and beyond keeping herself at arm’s length. Instead, through her writing, she metaphorically leans in and embraces you. She’s like that superhero who has simply misplaced her cape, hiding the superpowers in a trademark giant red flower placed ever so carefully in her hair.
Marieke, thank you for your words and keep on truckin'.
*The quote to end all quotes:
References:
Really Long Link
Really Long Link (buy it right now!)
I’m talking about my literary lady hero Marieke Hardy, the author of the book I am about to review (or something to that effect). Thanks to a chance encounter with Ms Hardy, who signed my copy of the book and wrote her email, promising to send me her designer political left-wing clothing range, I can send her these words and see if I get a ‘right of reply’ (this is something Hardy allows the people she writes about, to do in her book, a clever way of saying 'Hey! These people I'm talking about are not fictional! They're three dimensional AND have sufficient literacy skills, hazzah!')
My Book Review
---
I recently saw Spinal Tap for the first time (I know, took me long enough). There’s that famous scene where he explains how the amp goes up to 11 instead of the usual 10. Why? Because there’s nowhere left to go at 10. So these amps go up to 11*. This is exactly the effect rendered on readers of You’ll be sorry when I’m dead.
There you are, cruising at 11 the whole way through each chapter and thinking, ‘Where can this possibly go from here? How can she top that last chapter?’ Then she does. She hits 12, out of nowhere, running at full speed, like a nude streaker bringing elation to bored footballers everywhere.
Here is the official description of the book from Allen and Unwin, two dudes who decided to publish the book:
'From stalking and eventually meeting her Young Talent Time idol when she was twelve, to a particularly abhorrent encounter at a high-quality swingers night, and a mildly perverse obsession with Bob Ellis, there is nothing Marieke Hardy won't write about. Welcome to a chronicle of broken hearts, fervid pursuits, passionate friendships, deranged letter-writing, the allure of the bottle, the singular charms of musicians, the lost song of youth, and three very awkward evenings with varying prostitutes-exactly zero percent of which the author's parents will want to read. Add to that a slightly misguided attempt to give real-life friends and ex-lovers a 'right of reply' to the stories they appear in and it's fair to say an extended stint in the Witness Protection Program beckons.'
Throughout the tome, I was either sympathising with unabashed enthusiasm, nodding violently at each page’s turn, seeing life affirmations I had come to live by in such abundance, I had to double check that I had not written the book myself, before arriving at the sobering conclusion that I had not. At other passages I would pause, mouth agape, scrambling to try and fathom the brutal honesty of these stories, unable to relate at all. I could, however, relate to the various passages about meeting your heroes, those heroes you have an inexplicable adoration for, consuming their work with a kind of 'greedy lust' as she describes.
I met Marieke at her book launch where I made a 'clever' quip about her signing my book with my Twitter name (‘eh, eh? *nudges someone*). I then noticed in mild shock that she not only recognised me but seemed excited to meet ME claiming that she loved meeting people from Twitter and that she saw my tweets and found them 'FUNNY.' Who me? This old dress? etc.
This coming from the woman who made ME laugh all throughout my university years, from the very same lady who taught Younger Writing Student Sheree (basically a poorer and thinner version of me now), that writing was a profession, albeit an awkward one, but a legitimate profession all the same. I finally saw the path of penned righteousness, concluding that writer-hood was laden with pitfalls and criticism and occasional stalkers, but that above all it was a profession in its entirety, riddled with small pockets of success and a respectable level of alcoholism (see chapter ten, Down the hatch). It was a career I became determined to conquer. And now here we are, reading this on my blog. Well done, Shezballs, success is just around the corner.
The experience of reading this book can be likened to the experience of drinking expensive gin. It goes down a little too smoothly, followed by fits of giggles, a few comradely tears, high fiving yourself in agreement at the lyrical prose, falling asleep with it half open on your face, waking up and remembering that one line you loved about weeping for your 20s, a hazy blur from the night before and then just like that, it's over in a heartbeat and you think, why couldn't it be a thousand/billion pages long? And the bartender won't serve you anymore of that glorious gin and you shake your tiny fist at him and say 'I'll be back!' (I realise this metaphor has gone on long enough but bear with me).
So when it's well and truly over, all that’s left is a confounded little you, attempting to pin point the exact moment you felt your heart break. This book will try to break your heart if you let it, because it's a hilariously poignant, devastatingly well thought out collection of essays that come together in such a vivid manner, like watching the hazy silhouette of the characters dancing on the page right in front of you. The next thing you know you’re drunk and you could have sworn that Bob Ellis the human was there in the room with you, as he frowns and storms out, such is the power of Marieke’s evocative descriptions. /End scene on my extended metaphor.
Of course, the heart break continues with the painstakingly beautiful and cherished passages about her best friend’s battle with cancer, the loss of a faux-child and the nostalgia for that period of our 20s that are meant to last forever. Unexpectedly I felt my heart tie itself into little knots at the section where Marieke gets to know her own hero Bob Ellis and he redeems himself in a fiery blaze of glory. I don't know why but that chapter really stuck with me. Maybe I can relate to it, having named my camera after my own old man writer hero (Chomsky Canon 550D).
Perhaps this makes no sense at all if you haven't read the book, or if you haven't encountered any of Marieke's work thus far in your life (FOR SHAME!) Never mind. You’ll just have to do so.
Each story weaves a narrative that loosely translates a young woman's life and her relationships before tying it all together at the end and calling it a day. Marieke has put herself out there with her writing for years now, but this in-depth book only succeeds in revealing that we knew nothing about her all along, that this too, is only a slight glimpse into her bizarre-o world. Written like a love song or an ode to all things woeful and wonderful, Marieke is brash, unashamed, frank and painfully honest. Her stare-off with a small baby had me chuckling for a good minute.
She writes that meeting your heroes is difficult because we keep them at arm’s length and never see their true human side. Marieke Hardy goes one step above and beyond keeping herself at arm’s length. Instead, through her writing, she metaphorically leans in and embraces you. She’s like that superhero who has simply misplaced her cape, hiding the superpowers in a trademark giant red flower placed ever so carefully in her hair.
Marieke, thank you for your words and keep on truckin'.
*The quote to end all quotes:
Nigel Tufnel: The numbers all go to eleven. Look, right across the board, eleven, eleven, eleven and...
Marty DiBergi: Oh, I see. And most amps go up to ten?
Nigel Tufnel: Exactly.
Marty DiBergi: Does that mean it's louder? Is it any louder?
Nigel Tufnel: Well, it's one louder, isn't it? It's not ten. You see, most blokes, you know, will be playing at ten. You're on ten here, all the way up, all the way up, all the way up, you're on ten on your guitar. Where can you go from there? Where?
Marty DiBergi: I don't know.
Nigel Tufnel: Nowhere. Exactly. What we do is, if we need that extra push over the cliff, you know what we do?
Marty DiBergi: Put it up to eleven.
Nigel Tufnel: Eleven. Exactly. One louder.
Marty DiBergi: Why don't you just make ten louder and make ten be the top number and make that a little louder?
Nigel Tufnel: [pause] These go to eleven.
Marty DiBergi: Oh, I see. And most amps go up to ten?
Nigel Tufnel: Exactly.
Marty DiBergi: Does that mean it's louder? Is it any louder?
Nigel Tufnel: Well, it's one louder, isn't it? It's not ten. You see, most blokes, you know, will be playing at ten. You're on ten here, all the way up, all the way up, all the way up, you're on ten on your guitar. Where can you go from there? Where?
Marty DiBergi: I don't know.
Nigel Tufnel: Nowhere. Exactly. What we do is, if we need that extra push over the cliff, you know what we do?
Marty DiBergi: Put it up to eleven.
Nigel Tufnel: Eleven. Exactly. One louder.
Marty DiBergi: Why don't you just make ten louder and make ten be the top number and make that a little louder?
Nigel Tufnel: [pause] These go to eleven.
References:
Really Long Link
Really Long Link (buy it right now!)
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