As someone who reads a lot of books, I find it harder and harder to be surprised and enthralled with each new read completed. Stories that explore love, romance and family can often be repetitive, sometimes even predictable. This month’s novel was far from any of those things and left me lying in bed, AirPods in, unable to press pause on the audio.
Sara Jafari’sThe Mismatch was published by Penguin in 2021. It’s been on my list ever since, and I’m only sorry I’ve just got around to reading it. The book is at its heart a romance, but it also offers insightful musings on identity, religion and class, alongside many other poignant themes. The story jumps back and forward in time, following Soraya’s life in the 2010s and her mother Neda’s, spanning the latter third of the 20th Century. Through a cross-generational narrative, Jafari explores how these two women navigate their first loves and first heartbreaks, as well as wrestling with their identities as British-Iranian women.
We first meet Soraya at the end of her studies where she stands on the brink of adult life. As a result of her strict upbringing and Muslim faith, she is yet to have sex, engage in a romantic relationship, or have her first kiss. She is plagued by the fear that Allah is watching her, mostly instilled (and often used as a threat) by her family. On deciding that she must engage in ‘kissing practice’ to prepare her for adulthood, she starts to date Magnus who on the surface appears to be a typical rugby lad. On the outside, he is a player and completely not her type – perfect for some meaningless experimentation. However, in classic rom-com style, Soraya quickly discovers that there is much more to him than meets the eye.
In the same way that Soraya’s chapters explore her burgeoning romance with Magnus and her coming-of-age story, Neda’s story documents her own upbringing and her eventual marriage to Soraya’s father, Hussain. Beginning with life in 70s Iran, a place alive with political and social change, Jafari carefully depicts the complexities of being a Muslim woman and the simultaneous joys and challenges that it presents. Neda chooses to wear a Hijab, unlike so many women in Iran at the time who see them as a threat to women’s liberation. This interesting look at feminism and how it can mean different things to different women was really refreshing, especially for the romance genre. In the same way that Soraya wrestles with her identity as a woman in modern-day Britain, Neda faces the same challenges throughout her life in Iran and later in the UK too.
I’ve seen this book compared to Sally Rooney’s Normal People, and I can certainly see the similarities. Jafari writes scenes of love tenderly and with intimacy, and I found myself holding my breath across multiple pages in fear of disturbing the story. While love is the central theme of the novel and is brought to life masterfully, it’s the messier ongoings in the background that make it exceptional. The Mismatch depicts stories of addiction, abuse, toxic masculinity and misogyny, all while highlighting incredible friendships, fraught familial relationships and love in all its glory. There’s so much to be said about this book and I enjoyed every page, particularly the audio version which is beautifully read by Ajjaz Awad and Afsaneh Dehrouyeh.
If you’re looking for a page-turning romance that offers more than just surface-level appeal, this is the book for you. I adored Sara Jafari’s debut and can’t wait to read more from this author. Support indie bookshops by buying The Mismatchhere.
Words: Beth Barker
Beth Barker is a writer and blogger from Blackpool, now working in Manchester. She also co-hosts Up North Books, a podcast celebrating books and writers from the North of England.
Beth wanted to contribute a monthly review to NRTH LASS in order to shine a light on Northern women writing great books. The North is very much underrepresented in publishing and she hopes a monthly review throughout 2021 will showcase the talent Northern women have to offer.
For more book reviews and insights on publishing in the North, follow Beth on Instagram and Twitter.
While so far, this column has been used as a space to spotlight and celebrate new books by Northern women, I’m excited to take a slightly different approach in the year ahead. Platforming fresh voices remains an integral part of these reviews, but I’m also interested in sharing some iconic books written over the last century that I think are essential to the Northern literary canon.
This month’s pick marks the first of those: Pat Barker’sBlow Your House Down. Best known for her First World War trilogy, the third instalment of which won the Booker Prize, and more recently her feminist takes on ancient tales, I find this book often slides under the radar. I’ve pushed this into many hands since reading it, and every one of those people loved it, so I decided it was time to give this book its rightful spot in the NRTH LASS library.
Blow Your House Down was published in 1984 and follows the lives of a group of sex workers living in the North of England. Loosely based on the Yorkshire Ripper murders, the story is driven by a killer who roams the streets and targets vulnerable women. Despite the risk of death now associated with their jobs, they have children to feed and rent to pay – life must carry on. Like most sensationalised serial killer sagas, documentation of Peter Sutcliffe’s crimes often focuses on the man himself and the brutality of his murders. While fictional, Barker’s narrative places priority on the victims of such crimes and restores agency to the women impacted by the violence inflicted.
The working-class women in Pat Barker’s books are powerful, tender and complex, and Blow Your House Down is no different. Her intensive use of dialogue captures this brilliantly, crafting conscious and believable conversations between the characters. She incorporates a distinctive Northern dialect without patronisation and creates women worth falling in love with on the page. Written in the midst of Second Wave Feminism, Barker’s novel speaks strongly to the idea that sex work is work, and women who partake in such activity should be viewed no less than any other. During the Ripper investigation, prostitution was vilified by police and the media, and Sutcliffe’s victims were blamed in part for their own death. Blow Your House Down represents the multiplicitous perspectives of women and exposes the bigotry of this narrative.
Despite the grim circumstances faced by the women in this novel, the fierceness of their friendship is undeniable. They are comrades in arms, there for each other at every turn and brought together to fight against a common enemy. The women understand the danger posed to them by a patriarchal society and go to extreme lengths to ensure each other’s survival. This is demonstrated when another woman is savagely murdered by the killer, and her lover embarks on a mission to avenge her death – whatever it takes. The characters in this book fear the worst, but in friendship, they become more powerful than ever.
Above all, Blow Your House Down is a deeply honest representation of what it is to be a woman in a society rife with violent men. It highlights how minority groups are exposed to further risk, how working-class women suffer at the hands of men and how sex workers are blamed when men act out. The impact of this book is immense, and despite being written in the 80s, its social commentary remains more relevant than ever.
If you’re a fan of literary crime narratives with a strong message at their core, you will adore this touching and nerve-wrenching novel. Buy it here to support the indie bookshop community.
Beth Barker is a writer and blogger from Blackpool, and co-host of Up North Books, a podcast celebrating books and writers from the North of England.
Beth wanted to contribute a monthly review to NRTH LASS in order to shine a light on Northern women writing great books. The North is very much underrepresented in publishing and she hopes a monthly review throughout 2021 will showcase the talent Northern women have to offer.
For more book reviews and insights on publishing in the North, follow Beth on Instagram and Twitter.
In the autumn of 2021, the latest Sarah Moss arrived on the shelves of bookshops all over the country. While The Fell is much like any of her previous novels – suspenseful, meditative and intelligent – it feels entirely unique. Set in 2020, this is the first book I’ve read that directly tackles the enduring pandemic and its impact on life as we once knew it. Spoiler alert: it’s an absolute literary masterpiece.
The Fell is polyphonic, and while it’s narrated in third-person, it very much captures the inner thoughts of the novel’s key characters. Kate is the instigator of the story – a middle-aged woman who can no longer bear the two-week quarantine she has been placed under. While her son Matt plays his console upstairs, she slips out into the evening dusk for a quick solitary walk, something she has always done. Her neighbour Alice sees her leave, but against the advice of the home secretary during a time of suspicion and hostility, she says nothing. Despite hoping that no one will ever find out about her momentary escape into the great outdoors, Kate soon comes into trouble and incites an entire rescue operation.
Under any other circumstances, a plot like this might sound wholly mundane and even a little boring. But that really is the beauty of it. Amidst lockdown after lockdown, the most ordinary activities became a major event. One of my favourite things about The Fell is how Moss captures the intensity of isolation, crafting stream of consciousness narrations that, much like the experiences themselves, are pretty unbearable to read.
“Dust we are and to dust we shall return, well get on with it then, wouldn’t it be better sometimes just to do the returning than spend your life cowering away, weeks and months ticking by like this, not as if there weren’t epidemics then too, the original inhabitants, but they got on with it, didn’t they, people died and they were sad but they didn’t wall themselves up, they didn’t stop educating the children and forbid music, the living were allowed to live if you can call it that, Victorian mining, not that they lived long but maybe length isn’t how you want to measure it.”
Through characters like Kate and Alice, her elderly neighbour, Moss intelligently explores the varying nuances of experience during the pandemic. Their perspectives are multiplicitous. They understand the need for a lockdown and masks and social distancing, but they’re still frustrated by it. They know why regulations are in place, but they still criticise the messaging used by lawmakers and the media.
That was one aspect of the novel which I particularly enjoyed. Moss’ reflections on the language of the pandemic, phrases like ‘social distancing’ picked apart for their nonsensical nature. Looking back at the book now, especially since hearing the revelations of Downing Street ‘work events’, her characters’ critique of certain rules hits hard. The author exposes the stupidity of bans on walking, mentioning how the police flew drones and spent countless hours chasing people back indoors with the threat of fines or arrests. The Peak District setting makes the plot particularly poignant – these characters have an affinity with the natural world, and their lives completely change when that’s taken away from them.
As well as exploring one community’s experience of pandemic life, The Fell also celebrates the camaraderie, friendship and compassion witnessed throughout. As much as it is a criticism of transient rules and our desperation to break them, it is also a testament to the relationships that pulled us through. Neighbours support each other, both practically and emotionally, and even during their worst moments, the community pulls together for survival.
Sarah Moss is a champion of a writer. If you loved the dark and powerful narratives of Ghost Wall and Summerwater, you’re bound to enjoy the latest in her unmissable lineup.
The Fell was published by Picador in 2021, and you can purchase it here.
Words: Beth Barker
Beth Barker is a writer and blogger from Blackpool, now working in Manchester. She also co-hosts Up North Books, a podcast celebrating books and writers from the North of England.
Beth wanted to contribute a monthly review to NRTH LASS in order to shine a light on Northern women writing great books. The North is very much underrepresented in publishing and she hopes a monthly review throughout 2021 will showcase the talent Northern women have to offer.
For more book reviews and insights on publishing in the North, follow Beth on Instagram and Twitter.
2021 was an incredible year of publishing for women. From the Northern writers making their mark on the Women’s Prize Futures Award to the authors dominating 2021’s Portico Prize Shortlist, there’s no doubting the talent that continues to emerge from our region.
Creating a list like this isn’t always the easiest task. While Northern women are still drastically underrepresented in literary publishing, narrowing our selection down to such a small number this time was the most challenging part.
We’ll continue to share the latest publications throughout the coming months, but for now, here are 10 books by northern women to read in 2022.
From the author of prize-winning Saltwater comes Milk Teeth, one of our most anticipated books of 2022. A story about love, identity and sensuality, Andrews’ next novel feels like the natural progression from her debut. Centred around a young woman from the North of England, Milk Teeth is set to be another powerful tale about taking up space, navigating the world and the people we meet along the way.
If you’re into literary biographies, cultish creativity and the world of alternative music, you’re going to love Ten Thousand Apologies. Co-written by singer Lias Saoudi and the acclaimed Yorkshire-based author Adelle Stripe, the book offers an in-depth exploration of the UK’s most notorious cult band – Fat White Family. Promising lucidity, humour and a definitive account of the era, this seems to be a must-read for music enthusiasts and culture fiends alike.
For avid non-fiction readers comes a disruptive, powerful and influential read from Bradford-born writer Suhaiymah Manzoor-Khan: Tangled in Terror. In a bid to unpack the intrinsic narratives of Islamophobia from our history, society and daily lives, the book shows that until the most marginalised Muslims are safe, nobody is safe. If you’re passionate about current affairs, political meditations and looking past the surface level story, this is definitely one for your reading list.
January marks the publication of the long-anticipated debut from writer Lauren Brown. Hands, a memoir that offers ‘an anxious mind unpicked’, explores a whole host of themes alongside a central desire to uncover the roots of compulsive skin-picking. In the process, the book’s weaving narratives take readers on a journey through a young woman’s life, presenting joy, healing and a love song to the North.
Fitzcarraldo Editions are constantly serving up fresh and thought-provoking literature for their readership to enjoy, and 2022 is no different. York-based Daisy Hildyard’s Emergencyarrives in April, a novel about the dissolving boundaries between all life on earth. Stuck at home alone under lockdown, a woman recounts her 1990s childhood in rural Yorkshire. Dubbed as a reinvention of the pastoral novel for the climate change era, this one is undoubtedly topping our TBRs.
When Danielle Jawando’s powerful And the Stars Were Burning Brightly was published in 2020, it took the YA book world by storm. This year marks the arrival of her next novel, a powerful coming-of-age story about chance encounters, injustice and how the choices we make can completely change our future. When Our Worlds Collided explores the deep-rooted prejudice that exists within the police, media and our society today.
From the prize-winning author of the inimitable Treats and Supper Club comes The Odyssey, a book that promises a satire of modern life. Lara Williams’ latest novel follows Ingrid, a luxury cruise ship worker who is selected for the employee mentorship scheme that pushes her further than she thought possible. Exploring themes of class, consumer capitalism and unexpected voyages, this book is certainly set to cause a stir this spring.
Lovers of crime, take note: Manchester-based Stephanie Sowden’s debut is on its way. Set in modern America, this suspenseful story centres on Reeta Doe, who wakes up in hospital to be told she is responsible for the brutal murder of two women. She cannot answer the FBI’s questions – her only hope is Carol, a journalist who must follow the trail of devastation Reeta left in her wake. If you can’t get enough of a thriller, After Everything You Did is definitely one for the list.
Pragya Agarwal’s non-fiction work is some of the best there is, especially if you appreciate well-researched, fact-driven mediations alongside personal reflections. After the success of (M)otherhood: On the Choices of Being a Woman in 2021, this year offers Hysterical: The Gendered Nature of Emotions. Casting her astute gaze to another angle of feminist thought, the behavioural scientist sets out to chart how emotions really came to be so gendered.
After the storm of a debut that was Ariadne comes Jennifer Saint’s next mythological rewriting, this time bringing the tragic heroine Elektra to life. While focusing on the origins of the Trojan War and the dreadful curse blighting the House of Atreus, Saint is set to take readers on another female-dominated Greek adventure. If you enjoy the likes of Madeleine Millar, Pat Barker and Natalie Haynes, you’ll want to add this one to your 2022 stack.
Beth Barker is a writer and blogger from Blackpool, now working in Manchester. She also co-hosts Up North Books, a podcast celebrating books and writers from the North of England.
Beth wanted to contribute a monthly review to NRTH LASS in order to shine a light on Northern women writing great books. The North is very much underrepresented in publishing and she hopes a monthly review throughout 2021 will showcase the talent Northern women have to offer.
For more book reviews and insights on publishing in the North, follow Beth on Instagram and Twitter.
There is a distinct comfort in knowing that certain people are still around. A reassurance in knowing that there are people out there who see the world in ways that seem familiar to oneself. A relief that there are those who are able to put into words those things that at the time you are not capable of doing. When we lose these people, known intimately to us or not, then we are left with a certain empty feeling; not simply as a result of the physical yet metaphorical ‘hole’ they leave behind, but also the emptiness of knowing that we are losing a certain viewpoint on the world, one which we found to be sound, wise and safe.
I am reliably informed that a request to write this piece arrived shortly after the news broke, during which time I had received several messages from friends, enquiring as to my wellbeing and sending me love. Due to my complete ignorance of the current facts this was strange, but it being the 23rd December, a welcome addition to the festive period. Six days have since elapsed in which several paragraphs have been discarded after numerous failed reworks; my only success coming in the form of a few (potentially) throwaway sentences. Instead, on this, the sixth day, I have reread two collections of essays; Slouching Towards Bethlehemand The White Album, in the full knowledge that it is only once I feel comforted that I will be able to find my own words.
*
Several times over the past week I have been posed with one striking question: How does one go about writing a tribute to someone who is so immortal? Although I will gladly take any opportunity to crowbar the name ‘Joan Didion’ into any conversation, I have been consistently struck these past seven days with the futility that lies in trying to write about her life. She did it for us. If you require an obituary, read Where I Was From. Social critique: Slouching Towards Bethlehem. Intimate glances into the author’s psyche: The White Album. Advice on how to grieve such a loss: The Year of Magical Thinking. When talking to a friend yesterday there were three words I returned to over and over and over again: she’s eulogised herself.
I am unable to tell you anything about Joan Didion that Joan Didion has not already told us. It is impossible to write a legacy without simply using her own words. I do not mean that the odd quote here and there is useful in understanding her life, rather I mean it quite literally. Everything she wrote is so well crafted, so intimate, so personal and so subtly powerful that it would be wasteful of me to attempt anything new. Her legacy is a unique one, in that it is she who lays the most claim to it.
Five years ago, I experienced a grief so intense I felt I had lost my personality. I knew there were many things I had just lost in the space of three days, perhaps most importantly to me, a unique viewpoint on the world. Upon my uncle’s death there were certain people who wrote about his life, his work, whatever legacy it was he had left behind and I hated it. I do not remember much from those first few weeks and did not put pen to paper aside from once; in the haze of my memories I distinctly remember writing down how strange it is that when one dies we no longer have control over who we are. How it is so easy to be interpreted, reimagined and redefined. This scared me. The only thing I wanted was for him to be able to speak for himself. To lay claim to his own legacy. To fashion his own eulogy.
Joan Didion taught me about grief. The Year of Magical Thinking was avoided for as long as I still had other Didion to read. There was something within my being that knew that once I began her account on how to navigate unimaginable loss, the one I had felt would have some more finality. I knew that through the reading I would be moving closer to some kind of acceptance. It took me three years but it made me feel sane. I was acutely struck by the moment in which she is urged to remove John’s clothes and shoes, a task she logically understands but is unable to comprehend and therefore do. What will he do when he comes back, she wonders, as upon his return he will most certainly need both his clothes and his shoes. When you know exactly how this madness feels, someone writing it down and having the courage to publish makes you feel the sanest person in the world.
*
It was my closest school friend who introduced me to Joan. (Not personally, although it’s often felt that way.) As I’ve shared before, he had taken a work-related trip to the States and returned with an edition of Slouching Towards Bethlehem, which he promptly leant to me uttering the words, “you’re a woman who can’t help but include herself in her writing, you’ll like her.” At the risk of cliche, our first encounter was transformative. I didn’t simply like Joan Didion, as my friend had suggested, I was completely enamoured.
The first words I ever read of Joan Didion’s attributed suicide, divorce and prickly dread to the Santa Ana winds. She said they worked on the nerves, disrupted your breathing and helped hillsides to spontaneously combust. We are being told this as a prelude to a story about Lucille Miller, a thirty-four year old woman who was tried and convicted of murdering her husband on Banyan Street in the middle of the night via their 1964 Volkswagen. This is extraordinary journalism and even in my ignorance, with that first paragraph I was able to see that for her, place matters. It influences everything; lives, language, loves. It determines our attitudes and our destinies. It soothes us or it works on the nerves. It shapes our identities. It is not a mere backdrop for the players on this stage, rather a character within its own right, an integral part of the action, a plot device waiting to pounce.
Time and time again Joan’s own words have been used to describe her: a place belongs to the person who claims it the hardest. Although she is using this in relation to James Jones and how for her, he lays claim to Hawaii, the words unsurprisingly are the only ones that can do justice to what she was to California. I have never been to California, but in the California of my mind’s eye it is Joan Didion’s. It is sun-kissed, sixties hedonism and it is the Manson Family Murders. It is Jim Morrison arriving late, or not at all, to record with the Doors. It is San Francisco, Los Angeles, Sacramento and inevitable wildfires. It is a land where rain is a mystery, water a fascination, rattlesnakes a certainty. It is endless highways, the Pacific Ocean, car travel and the Beverly Hills Hotel. It is synthetic light, migraines, dinner parties and endless absurdities. It is one Pan Am flight from Honolulu and it is the final frontier. It is now, thanks to Joan Didion, one of my greatest obsessions. A mystery so intimate to me I wonder if I ever need go.
*
For days I have been attempting to vocalise how Joan’s writing actually makes me feel. I have come up with nothing aside from feelings of being overwhelmed. I am always overwhelmed by emotion, neither sad nor happy. As I write I come to realise that she encapsulates a certain melancholy; a word that for me evokes feelings of desolation, emptiness and heartache alongside a certain comfort or reassurance.
I have turned to Joan’s writing for consolation many times over the past two years. More frequently than not, the center has not been holding. I have turned to Joan as her work reminds me that there is a universality in chaos, in dread, in the impending sense of the end of the world. Generation after generation has stood on the precipice of the world collapsing in on itself and remarkably, every time, it does not.
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There is much uniqueness in Joan Didion’s writing but there are two things I find particularly striking. The first is her ability to explore some of the most mundane things with such intricacy that they become the most exciting and enchanting things in the world. The essays Holy Water and Bureaucrats are excellent examples of this. In one, she visits the Operations Control Center for the California State Water Project and in another Caltrans, the California Department of Transportation’s Operation Center. Neither of these are particularly exciting places yet as Didion notes the minutiae in their workings and how her own thoughts and feelings interact with these places they become sensational. I knew when I was gripped to an essay on ‘the 42 mile loop’ that I was reading a writer like no other.
The second is her capacity to include so much intricacy in the sensational that they in turn become mundane. As in Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream, (the story chronicling Lucille Miller and the death of her husband) where we are told that after Miller has given birth following her incarceration her elder daughter came to take the new baby home in a white dress with pink ribbons. We are consistently brought back down to earth. Told something suddenly, in an often offhand manner, that changes the whole feeling. This could happen to you. This could happen to anyone. One day you sit down to dinner, and life as you know it ends.
*
Reading Joan Didion did not make me want to become a writer. Reading Joan Didion assured me that I am a writer and taught me why. Why I Write is one of the most sensible things I have ever read. Why I Write taught me to unlearn everything I thought I knew about grammar. Told me to treat each sentence as if it were a melody, adding the rests and the short notes wherever I felt they should be. She taught me that writing is an art form, and that whenever I shift the structure of a sentence, I change it in the same dramatic manner as taking a photograph from an entirely different angle. She spoke to us often of her own doubts and reassured us that everyone has the feeling that they are sometimes simply passing as the person they think they are or would like to be.
In the preface to Slouching Towards Bethlehem Didion claims that there is one thing we always need to remember: ‘writers are always selling someone out.’ I reread this yesterday and, as always, was amused until I began to wonder who is it I am selling out by writing this piece. I still don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if it’s Joan, I’m selling out what she actually meant, what her true point was through some well-meant misinterpretation. I am, however, more inclined to believe that in this instance the person really being sold out is myself. Never will my (currently unfinished) novel land in the aged yet eccentrically expressive hands of the remarkable Ms Didion. Never will I be able to express to her how it was she who helped me make sense of my burning desire to work things out through the written word; that need to grasp a permeance in the midst of chaos.
Maybe I am selling myself out through what I now feel has become some kind of intellectual love letter to a woman born generations before myself, on the other side of the world, in a place I have never been, with whom I feel I have such a strong connection purely due to her exceptional command of the written word. Joan Didion taught me that there is a place in fact for women’s voices and that there is a place in journalism for the personal essay. Order can be found in the deepest disorder. Life is always there, even in the midst of grief. Nothing objective is interesting.
Remember what it was to be me: that is always the point.
Joan Didion
1934-2021
Saffron Rain lives and writes in Stockport. She was born and raised around Manchester, only moving away to get her degree and subsequent MA in English Lit in Sheffield. During this time she wrote ardently on the North, particularly female writers and filmmakers.
Her preferred form is the personal essay and she enjoys writing about topics that she connects to on a personal level. Some of these have appeared in independent publications and she shares longer pieces on her own blog. She loves to read, particularly women, and will take any opportunity to crowbar Joan Didion into a conversation.
Beth Barker’s final book review for 2021 comes in the form of Abundance: Nature in Recovery, a collection of literary essays by Karen Lloyd, a writer from the Lake District in the North of England.
As we entered the autumn season, the shelves of bookshops were flooded with fresh literary talent. One book that stood out was Abundance: Nature in Recovery, a collection of literary essays by Karen Lloyd. With the climate crisis becoming increasingly urgent, the publication of this book felt particularly important and necessary.
Abundance is a work of art in which the literary and natural worlds collide. For many, nature writing can be overwhelming, but Lloyd’s writing is refreshingly accessible. The book’s purpose is to explore abundance and loss, in part concerning itself with the damage done to our environment. Lloyd writes:
“When I turn on the news or read a newspaper, I am assailed by all the losses in the natural world. The natural world is being flushed out.”
The book opens with a bold question: what kind of future will our children and grandchildren have on this planet? The reader gets the feeling that in this book, we’re going to find out. Throughout several essays, signifiers of change are explored, from the toxic algal blooms in the Lake District National Park to the ferocious Storm Desmond and floods that ensued. While these events and occurrences draw our attention to the ever-pressing ecological crisis, causing us to dwell on them is not the author’s intention.
“Something in my neural pathways blocks me when I try (admittedly not very hard) to imagine what things will be like for my boys – for my two young adult sons – and for their one-day families. Will they have families? Is it OK to continue having families?”
Abundance, I believe, is a book partly about hope and partly about seeing things in a new light. Told through joyous narratives that weave between well-researched facts and personal experiences, Lloyd’s essays provide a manifesto for change. She believes the solution to our problem is to reconnect with and repair our relationship to the earth – to encourage the alignment of humans and the natural world. As well as documenting the disasters we face, Lloyd also draws our attention to the incredible work done by conservationists and calls for education reforms to make natural education a priority.
Among other things, Lloyd’s work exudes a pure love for nature and what it has to offer us as individuals, communities and as an entire species. Whether it’s wolves, whopper swans, damselflies or beavers, these essays are full of passionate explorations of the world around us. Wild swimming and woodland hikes remind us that there is so much beauty to enjoy outside of our echo chamber – seeing it might just change our perspective entirely. “Let’s seed the idea of return through the seeding of languages that wander through the world. If we want it, all we need to do is imagine it into being: 3… 2… 1… go. Hearts and minds. What you don’t love, you can’t save. Save what you love.”
Karen Lloyd is a writer and environmental activist from the Lake District. Abundance: Nature in Recovery was published in September by Bloomsbury. You can purchase it here.
Words: Beth Barker
Beth Barker is a writer and blogger from Blackpool. She is the co-host of Up North Books, a podcast celebrating books and writers from the North of England.
Beth wanted to contribute a monthly review to NRTH LASS in order to shine a light on Northern women writing great books. The North is very much underrepresented in publishing and she hopes a monthly review throughout 2021 will showcase the talent Northern women have to offer.
For more book reviews and insights on publishing in the North, follow Beth on Instagram and Twitter.
As the year draws to a close and the nights draw in, candlelit reading becomes an absolute essential. November marks the launch of the perfect accompaniment: Sarah Schofield’sSafely Gathered In. Published by the incredible Manchester-based Comma Press, this electric short story collection is definitely one to add to your winter reading list.
“A woman grows increasingly annoyed by her husband’s emails, offering advice and reminders even months after his death… A taxidermist dreams of preserving one of his clients after she takes him out for a coffee… A grieving nurse is troubled by her daughter’s fascination with The Iron Lady…”
With style comparable to Sarah Moss and the ability to evoke unease like Naomi Booth, Schofield’s storytelling certainly leaves a mark on her readers. One of the potent threads running through the collection is an obsession with objects. Schofield interrogates how they define us, our relationship to them and what they can eventually come to represent. This is the feeling delivered by the title story – Safely Gathered In – crafted in list formation to depict the contents of a series of storage units. While the idea seems simple, I loved how these inventories brought people and personalities to life without making their presence known. Powerful and unsettling, this story really sets the tone for the whole collection.
My favourite story opens the collection, cleverly entitled Dead Man’s Switch. Emmy, the plot’s protagonist, grows increasingly annoyed by her husband’s emails offering advice and reminders even months after his death. Whether it’s home insurance or her upcoming MOT, David’s words of wisdom continue to arrive in her inbox. Sharing the annoyance with her sister Kath as she tries to move on with new partner Gary, the speight of emails allow Emmy to reflect on her old relationship as well as the new. I loved how this story sparked thoughts about technology and how the modern age we’re living in allows us to extend our lives beyond expiration. Schofield also played with objects in this story to experiment with ideas of memory, loss and grief. Fisherman’s Friends, knitting needles, old books. All of these objects define something, and the author allows the reader enough space to decide what that is.
“It’s their last day on the beach and Emmy slips out her phone while Gary goes to get ice creams. There is another email from David. It is a reminder to cancel or renew their wine subscription. She scrunches her toes into the sand, heat flashing behind her eyes. She presses reply.”
Another critical theme reflected in Schofield’s stories is motherhood. Keenly observed and told with captivating honesty, she captures the trials and tribulations of family life. In Termination Happy Meal, a mother takes her teenage daughter to a McDonalds, presumably after visiting the abortion clinic. Told over less than two pages, the story casts a searing light on the wrought
nature of mother-daughter relationships. Again explored through objects in the story, Schofield brings to life the conflicts of growing up and the decisions that define our lives. For a story of so few words, it really is a triumph.
I was lucky enough to hear Sarah read from her collection at a pre-launch event: a short story salon hosted by Blackwell’s Manchester. Reading alongside the incredible Lucie McKnight Hardy and Vanessa Onwuemezi, it was a fantastic opportunity to hear more about the collection in real life after such a long time without in-person book events. Schofield read eloquently and gave some key insights about her craft, particularly how she likes to write and how her stories come together. If you’re looking for a true example of how to create haunting, bold and brilliant short fiction, Sarah Schofield is the beacon to look to.
Safely Gathered In was published in early November 2021 by Comma Press. Support your local bookshop or buy your copy here.
Words: Beth Barker
Beth Barker is a writer and blogger from Blackpool, now working in Manchester. She also co-hosts Up North Books, a podcast celebrating books and writers from the North of England.
Beth wanted to contribute a monthly review to NRTH LASS in order to shine a light on Northern women writing great books. The North is very much underrepresented in publishing and she hopes a monthly review throughout 2021 will showcase the talent Northern women have to offer.
For more book reviews and insights on publishing in the North, follow Beth on Instagram and Twitter.
August marked the publication of Pat Barker’s The Women of Troy, one of my most anticipated reads of 2021. Having devoured The Silence of the Girls, Barker’s feminist retelling of Homer’s Iliad,it only felt right to dedicate our August column spot to its continuation.
While The Silence of the Girls ends by describing the fate of Troy, her latest novel delves into the aftermath. The book recaps the Greek invasion, beginning from the packed interior of a wooden horse. Barker describes the scene as the men await the coming battle, namely Pyrrhus, the teenage son of the late and great Achilles. He is nervous, fearful of death and desperate for the glory that will define his future. From a reader’s perspective, it’s easy to question why a book about women should begin with such an extended look at a group of men. However, we soon realise that interrogating masculinity, hierarchy and power is central to understanding their story.
Survival is a defining theme throughout The Women of Troy. Like all wars, both ancient and contemporary, Barker reminds us that they are brutal and unrelenting. In this case, the tragedy of war leaves behind a group of women, captured into an unknown future after the sacking, burning and massacring of their home city. We receive a stark and lasting reminder of this from Briseis, the book’s central narrator.
Since she is carrying the last child of Achilles, she is married off to one of the Greeks and granted her own servant – Amina. Strong willed and fearless at times, Amina insists on giving their former leader a proper burial after his body is dishonoured by the victorious soldiers. At this moment, Briseis brings her back to reality: “Look, Amina, if you’re going to survive, you’ve got to start living in the real world. Troy’s gone. In this compound, whatever Pyrrhus wants, Pyrrhus gets.” From the very beginning, survival is firmly in the minds of the Trojan women – no matter what it takes.
As established in this scene, sisterhood is incredibly important to The Women of Troy. Much like The Silence of the Girls, Barker skips out on the glorification of military success and instead pays real attention to the relationships, thoughts and experiences of the Trojan women. Their sufferings are intense, and while the classics may have explored this to a degree, many feel their stories have gone untold for far too long.
Subversions and retellings of the classics have grown increasingly popular over the last decade, particularly those that offer fresh and feminist perspectives. While the likes of Madeline Millar, Natalie Haynes and Elodie Harper have put their own stamp on the myths of the past, Barker reaches new levels of originality. By combining a contemporary voice and completely overthrowing the language that you’d expect to find in an epic, she brings something new and accessible to these stories like no other. At times comical and at others heart-wrenching, she makes the stars of classical mythology likeable, intriguing and painfully real.
As the Greeks look forward to their glorious return, equipped with the spoils of war, the bonds between them quickly begin to wither. While centering and elevating the experiences of women, Barker tells a tale that brings power, masculinity and the fragility of war into sharp focus. Perfect for people who enjoy viewing ancient history through a contemporary lens, this is a glittering achievement from the highly-acclaimed writer.
Pat Barker’s The Women of Troyis published by Penguin’s Hamish Hamilton. Support indie bookshops by purchasing it here.
Words: Beth Barker
Beth Barker is a writer and blogger from Blackpool, now working in Manchester. She also co-hosts Up North Books, a podcast celebrating books and writers from the North of England.
Beth wanted to contribute a monthly review to NRTH LASS in order to shine a light on Northern women writing great books. The North is very much underrepresented in publishing and she hopes a monthly review throughout 2021 will showcase the talent Northern women have to offer.
For more book reviews and insights on publishing in the North, follow Beth on Instagram and Twitter.
One of the best things about writing this column has undoubtedly been the chance to discover so many incredible debut authors, beginning their journeys into the world of publishing. Last month marked the publication of Anna Glendenning’s An Experiment In Leisure, a novel that was deeply thought-provoking, relatable and at the same time, completely unique.
The book follows Grace, a twenty-something Cambidge graduate from the northern landscape of West Yorkshire. Talented and intelligent, the narrator appears to have climbed the ranks of the social ladder by achieving her Oxbridge degree and living an independent life in London, despite her humble working-class beginnings. What we soon learn is that much like her identity, she too is in a constant state of flux – unsettled and unsure of where she belongs.
One of the things I enjoyed most about Glendenning’s writing was her purposeful use of dialect and accent throughout. It fluctuates: in London, her northern tongue is carefully edited; in Yorkshire, she plays up to her roots. As a reader, this idea in itself provided a lot to think about, especially in the form of a novel. The publishing industry is well-known for policing dialect, dulling it down to avoid alienating certain audiences. In An Experiment In Leisure, accents reign supreme and offer unparalleled depth to the characters who hold them.
Whether it’s class, geographical location, sexuality or identity, this novel is full of crises. While sad at times, there were moments in the text that left me laughing out loud. Grace is a character that the reader roots for as she tries to figure out her life, no matter how hard it might be for her to work it out. She notices minute details about the world around her, normal moments brought to life by Glendenning’s acute and masterful writing style. In the beginning of the book, Grace sees a therapist. Written in short, pacy lines of dialogue, we begin to understand that she is deeply lonely, often caught up in her own thoughts. This is reflected by the text itself, both chaotic and well-structured. It mirrors the experimental life the narrator seeks to lead as she hopes to become a lady of leisure, whatever that might mean.
It was really intriguing to read a novel that captures the intersections of northern and working-class identities. While Grace moves to London following her graduation from Cambridge, she soon finds herself fleeing between both locations. Her identity is constantly in question, strained by her changing position in society. The novel questions the idea of social mobility – is there a ladder that can simply be climbed? Or is the process of moving up a little more complex? Whether the answers are discovered in the novel or not, one thing is clear. An Experiment In Leisure celebrates working-class identities and offers an alternative perspective – one that suggests we don’t have to leave our roots behind to live a joyful life.
Heart-warming, tear-jerking and written with complete stylistic elegance, this book is a force to be reckoned with. Anna Glendenning is certainly one to watch. An Experiment In Leisure is now available, published by Chatto Windus. You can purchase it here.
Words: Beth Barker
Beth Barker is a writer and blogger from Blackpool, now working in Manchester. She also co-hosts Up North Books, a podcast celebrating books and writers from the North of England.
Beth wanted to contribute a monthly review to NRTH LASS in order to shine a light on Northern women writing great books. The North is very much underrepresented in publishing and she hopes a monthly review throughout 2021 will showcase the talent Northern women have to offer.
For more book reviews and insights on publishing in the North, follow Beth on Instagram and Twitter.
When June came around, the anticipation for a new book from iconic Northern author, Jenn Ashworth, was finally relieved with the release of Ghosted: A Love Story. Published by Sceptre, it’s the latest in a string of diverse, gripping and unforgettable reads written by the Preston-born, now Lancaster-based author.
On first impressions, Ghosted may appear to be a book about the modern dating concept of ignoring someone into non-existence. While the author does touch on that idea being the origin of the title, her book subverts it, taking it to new extremes. Her husband literally vanishes without a trace, whether purposefully or not.
The premise of the story is really that simple — it’s the vivid complexity of the self, relationships and navigating those two things which makes this book so incredible. On one ordinary morning, Laurie’s husband, Mark, disappears. Leaving his phone and wallet behind, he vanishes from the face of the earth, seemingly without a trace. The story explains how Laurie tells no-one for weeks, going about her daily life as if nothing has changed at all. As far as elevator pitches go, it’s certainly a book I was very intrigued to get into.
Laurie decides that in order to establish why her husband has disappeared from the present, she must revisit the past and retrace the steps of their relationship. One of the most enjoyable aspects of Ashworth’s brilliant novel is the way she captures the complexity of love and the way we interact with others. In Ghosted, marriage is ordinary in moments, exceptional in others; dull at times and warm in glimpses. There is no black and white with Ashworth’s characters — every person and the relationships they’re entangled in are laced with excitement, intrigue and multi-layered complexity.
While diving into the depths of love and all of it’s mysteries, the author delivers the story with some of the wittiest and most humorous writing I have ever experienced. Despite the content being deeply sad and heart-wrenching at times, Ashworth’s storytelling is cackle-inducing to say the least. In one instance, the narrator refers to Penelope, the wandering Odysseus’ faithful wife as a ‘poor daft sap’. While reminding the reader that the author is definitely northern, she makes use of classical parallels in the funniest way possible. Rivalling the likes of Otessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation or Raven Leilani’s Luster, the book combines tragedy with wit in a way that makes an unsolved mystery satisfying — it was truly a delight to read.
As well as razor-sharp humour and complex relationships, Ghosted also explores class, physicality and memory, all with absolute writing excellence. There’s no doubt that this book deserves a place on everyone’s summer to-be-read pile, especially if they’re particularly interested in flawed women narrators and on the lookout for a Northern setting. Jenn Ashworth is a stellar writer and Ghosted is the perfect addition to her already-iconic list of books, all entirely unique and eccentric in their own special way.
Ghosted: A Love Story was published in early June, now available to buy here.
Words: Beth Barker
Beth Barker is a writer and blogger from Blackpool, now working in Manchester. She also co-hosts Up North Books, a podcast celebrating books and writers from the North of England.
Beth wanted to contribute a monthly review to NRTH LASS in order to shine a light on Northern women writing great books. The North is very much underrepresented in publishing and she hopes a monthly review throughout 2021 will showcase the talent Northern women have to offer.
For more book reviews and insights on publishing in the North, follow Beth on Instagram and Twitter.
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