Is this sweeping cultural history, local history, autobiography, creative non-fiction, the start of innumerable fictional short stories, or something else? It's a jumble that divided opinions at my surprisingly well-attended bookclub (we only just fitted in the room) on Lovatt's recent confection. This is like an underbaked cake: not what's intended, barely holding together, yet full of all the right ingredients so that it's still quite a tasty offering.
I volunteered at an LGBT Helpline in the early 2010s (Coventry Friend, which gets a mention) and can attest to the truth of a lot of what Lovatt writes. The sparse calls picked up towards the end of the book (covering a log book from 1993 to 1998) was even truer when I was on the line, this being the emerging smartphone era. The clutter, the handover notes, the pinboards with information, the small rented space that felt both precariously ephemeral and more grittily real than the digital domains that were taking over... Lovatt captures all of this in a sprawling meditations upon her own late-20s coming out, upon the callers and the volunteers, and upon the contexts of 1970s to 2020s LGBT experience. Like the messiness of the flyer and paperclip-strewn Friend desk, this book makes up for in richness what it lacks in methodical rigour.
I read the second half in longer stretches and I found myself increasingly enthralled at the questions Lovatt raises over community and medium. The chapters do offer topical lenses (disability, race, coming out, physical safety, the digital age) but each one whisks together lots about Lovatt herself, some fictionalised calls based on the logbook (how much is real, how much imagined, how much just Lovatt's projection?), and some dates, books and places. This frustrated some in my bookclub, who felt it was hard to tell how much Lovatt was appropriating experience to tell her own life. More than one preferred the longer sections where it was focused just on a caller like Becky, expunged of Lovatt's own life.
That said, I have at least two experiences of trying to write from limited and/or sensitive sources, similar to those drawn on by Lovatt. In one, I used the only record of a voluntary organisation (an account book) to try and piece together more about its work. In another, I was writing about personal testimonies of mental health in the 1920s and 1930s. At both extremes - distant numbers and all-too personal - the author has to work hard to demarcate what can be (safely) inferred, setting out fact, emotion and conjecture. It is the latter historical accuracy within the text itself (allowing for the notes) that Lovatt perhaps falls slightly short.
The dangers with projection are brought to life in chapters on race and disability. I think Lovatt did a good job in drawing a line, but at least one in my bookclub became actively angry at the part where Lovatt had tried to track down a disabled LGBT figure from the phone line through a separate photographic record. This could be walking on thin ice with living people, GDPR and protected characteristics. The fact the person isn't identified (and given the 'creative non-fiction almost certainly wouldn't be identified in print) is beside the point.
Perceived faults make for a good bookclub discussion, yet overall I was in the 'enjoyed' camp. Lovatt's ambition overreaches but the cakemix melange is packed with tasty truths. I appreciate the role of fiction in making up where we cannot know more, but agree with others in the group that I would rather it had been disaggregated. Most agreed that the imagined calls would make better starting points for pure fiction. I would like the logbook themes treated in a more historical way - which could be done with respect to anonymity - perhaps as a discreet chapter. The autobiographal aspects were good (the Tinder dates especially) but possibly added to the frustrating opacity of narrative that Lovatt herself admits.
A mess, but then isn't life? And a jumble of well-researched observations (excellent references), and a contribution where previously there was none(?) is far better than a void.