Once upon a time you had to be an educated gentleman to write a book. You had to have the leisure to do it and, quite likely, influential friends in London to help with the grubby biz of printing and publishing it. And of course you would probably be wealthy enough not to worry toooo much about your royalties, depending on your thirst for port wine.
Now anyone can write and publish a books. And we do in our thousands, millions even. There has never been a time like this. We may be living in a golden age of creativity. On the other hand... Many, traditionalists esp., see the tidal wave of new creativity as a tsunami of semi-literate slush. Grammar and editing are soooo last century. Does it matter that the story is half-cocked? Noooooo. All that matters now, we are told, is the author's brand .. and sales, sales, sales.
Rosen Trevithick's Pompomberry House dives headfirst into this mosh pit of milling mores and body surfs the heaving brew with verve and style
It is a very witty book.
A swarm of indie authors go on a writers' weekend on a remote Cornish tidal isle. They are all absurd for different reasons and are all mercilessly lampooned for our amusement. The plot creaks a bit and is as ridiculous as they are in some ways. But hey, it doesn't matter because that is part of this charming satire in which the delusions have delusions.
The writing is often vivid and enjoyable. I wrote down loads of grreat dabs which caught my eye, such as this:
-- Her lips were painted a bright, glossy pink and her resting expression left them slightly partedl like a miniature letterbox waiting for a delivery.
But it was the sharp little needle pricks of wit that really make it, such as these:
-- a whale squirming in a microwave
-- a tower of rage in Topshop heels
-- that irksome Buzz Lightyear look about him
Ah yes, and then there is Dee, the innocent abroad, 'clutching her pencil case for comfort' as she finds herself in danger of being eaten alive by the monstrous egotisical vats of vanity she gets stuck with. We feel her discomfort with the extremes of human frailty she finds herself stuck with. She is the best writer of the lot, but they overawe her. She has no escape. This is a great joke as the whole point of her being there is to escape from another disappointing human, her hubby. Poor Dee! She wants to do right but is thwarted at every turn. Yet she is not unaware of her own sales figures and is not lily white as she checks out the guys her weekend throws her way.
One of my fave dabs is a seduction scene where a hunk makes a play for her, which she thwards, but this just drives him crazy:
-- 'I love it! Feisty! Grrrr!' He made claws with his fingers and mauled the air.
Brilliant stuff. And I can't not mention this lurverly dab either. Dee has just had a snog and describes the buzz suffusing her as
-- like a tingle panther
Let the review get a bit like the plot. Hectic.
The seagull I began to think of as perhaps representing, me, us, the readers, a sort of prying presence. Dawn's pig gambit reminded me of Piggy in Lord of the Flies, esp so at the end of the story, as did the island setting. I also thought of Robinson Cruso and The Tempest.
This dab cracked me up: .. the resounding snorting sound that indicates loose snot .. but then this dab made me sigh .. another choral moment in the heavenly hymn of creativity.
PPBH is just soo set in the now: '..people never visit without texting first..' Gareth seems a typical now man with all his naff ways. Much as Dee is such a now woman with her winning ways. Their relationship is soo now also. Maybe this thread of the story anchors the delusional lives of writers. We can't escape right? All this rampant creativity really is potty. There is desperation at every turn in the real and the deulsional lives.
Another dab I love: ..with Danger operating in power-saving mode.. and (pause to breath) this .. I opted instead for a head toss .. I can sooooo see both of those moments.
Now then, Enid. Gulp. Can you keep a secret? Before I started identifying with the seagull I, for the briefest of moments, wanted to high five Enid. This is notnot good, I confess. But this is nothing if not an honest review, and that is how I felt. I am not proud of it. But there we are. I even wondered, if the author sneakily agreed with Enid. Were that the case, then the story becomes a satire of the purest genius. Such a genius, wld throw in a happy ending, too, yes? Ach, this is unworthy. Moving swiftly on.
Actually, Enid has some great lines, esp: '..that's why you're all so bad .. you're not honest with each other..'
The scene with the authors stampeding to exit with the floor rumbling and warping is worthy of the greatest comedy writer of all, the mighty Aristophanes.
Ach, but the absolute killer in this passage is Enid's jealously which trumps her honesty! Marvellous!
There's quite a bit of genteel four-legged frolicing going on as we go along. As you do.
Chapter 17. Things get really intensely serious here. Dee freaks. It feels very real. Coincidentally, I felt a little unhinged for different reasons as I read this chapter.
Ach, and then a little further on. Those pesky gulls again! '..racing around the airspace, [?] with menace.' If they are not readers, they cld represent the author's creative doubts. Or they cld just be there as a conceit to unsttle us.
This passage really puzzles me and I have thought about it a lot: '..the monstrous figure of an oversized seagull poised impatiently on the rock before me'. Yep, it feels like a sort of creative goad urging the author on perhaps. 'Land this story!'
I can't end without saying you had me chuckling with this dab: '.. my heart alomst fell through my vagina ..'
Bravo! PPBH is a cracking satire for our time. It is how we are in so many ways. I was a bit resistant to the the story to begin with because I need to get out more in my reading ways. I am glad I went for PPBH because I found some lovely bits here and there. And I got to like Dee, daft as she is at times. And I bought the happy ending. I even enjoyed getting a bit freaked as I read Ch 17 as it meant the story was working in me in subliminal ways. PPHH was the first story I have read on my new kindle. It got its grappling hooks in my eyes and bossed my curiosity to the end. Oh and Enid dear, there isn't a literal to be found..and, in these post-structural times... Aww, shuddup Askew, they get the picture. And fingers crossed for you that it does become a picture one day. *bows*