Here are two novels inspired by classic tales: the first, a feminist retelling of Beowulf; the second, a homage to Ulysses and James Joyce. No need to have read the source material to appreciate them – I haven’t – although the first probably works better as a stand-alone than the second.
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The Mere Wife by Maria Dahvana Headley
Dana can’t remember what happened to her in Iraq between her videoed beheading and finding herself six months pregnant in an American military prison. She escapes, to bear the child alone on the side of a mountain above Herot Hall, a gated community built on the bones of what was her childhood home. Gren is different and, determined to protect him from others who’d consider him a monster, Dana keeps him apart[1].
Willa is also a survivor, although her wars have been fought in the social sphere. The daughter-in-law of Herot’s founder, she also has a young son. The boys are seven when Gren, unbeknownst to his mother, sneaks down the mountain to play with Dylan. When Willa discovers claw marks on the piano and windows, she calls the police[2].
Despite both mothers’ best intentions – Dana making a home deep inside the mountain; Willa dismissing her son’s talk of Gren as an imaginary friend – the bond strengthens between the boys. But the battleground between the adults is quickly bloodied: Willa losing a husband; Dana an arm.
Of course, the story can’t end well, but its telling is delightful: beautiful language; credible fantasy; a gloriously bitchy Greek chorus of society widows and wives. Published by Scribe, this exploration of the light and dark sides of mothering, and how the threat of losing what we cherish can make monsters of all of us, has earned its place on my favourites shelf.
[1] Although within sight and sound of the suburbs, mother and son set traps and forage for food as if they were deep in the Siberian taiga.
[2] I might not have mentioned it if it wasn't season, but she insists on them coming out on Christmas Day. Willa's already outed herself as a Christmas martyr (p54):
She ordered the goose from a retailer that gave the goose's entire family tree. It's a heritage bird. She ordered heirloom onions and grains for stuffing. There was a ten-page photo spread in her mind, her Christmas dinner as photographed for the masses. Tagged, envied. Now the goose looks yellowish and nervous.
If that's your thing, you can find eight more far from perfect fictional Christmases on Annecdotal.
Willa is also a survivor, although her wars have been fought in the social sphere. The daughter-in-law of Herot’s founder, she also has a young son. The boys are seven when Gren, unbeknownst to his mother, sneaks down the mountain to play with Dylan. When Willa discovers claw marks on the piano and windows, she calls the police[2].
Despite both mothers’ best intentions – Dana making a home deep inside the mountain; Willa dismissing her son’s talk of Gren as an imaginary friend – the bond strengthens between the boys. But the battleground between the adults is quickly bloodied: Willa losing a husband; Dana an arm.
Of course, the story can’t end well, but its telling is delightful: beautiful language; credible fantasy; a gloriously bitchy Greek chorus of society widows and wives. Published by Scribe, this exploration of the light and dark sides of mothering, and how the threat of losing what we cherish can make monsters of all of us, has earned its place on my favourites shelf.
[1] Although within sight and sound of the suburbs, mother and son set traps and forage for food as if they were deep in the Siberian taiga.
[2] I might not have mentioned it if it wasn't season, but she insists on them coming out on Christmas Day. Willa's already outed herself as a Christmas martyr (p54):
She ordered the goose from a retailer that gave the goose's entire family tree. It's a heritage bird. She ordered heirloom onions and grains for stuffing. There was a ten-page photo spread in her mind, her Christmas dinner as photographed for the masses. Tagged, envied. Now the goose looks yellowish and nervous.
If that's your thing, you can find eight more far from perfect fictional Christmases on Annecdotal.
| There are a range of mothers – fierce, feeble, fearsome, failing – in my short story collection, on the theme of identity, Becoming Someone, but I’ve picked out Reuben’s mother from “Rebekah’s Foreskin” for special mention in her attempt to protect her far-from-monstrous child. |  |
The River Capture by Mary Costello
Like the river near his ancestral home in rural Waterford, Luke O’Brien’s life barely flows. At thirty-four, he’s taken a career break from his teaching post at a private school in Dublin to make something of his lifelong obsession with James Joyce. But his book remains unwritten, his days filled with walking to the local supermarket, contemplating his neighbour’s cattle and visiting his only remaining relative, octogenarian aunt Ellen in her bungalow nearby.
Ruth Mulvey, a social worker in Dublin of around Luke’s age, has grown up three miles away, although the two have never met until she shows up at his house looking to place a homeless dog. There’s an instant connection and, over the ensuing thirty days, a tentative drawing closer, although Ruth has reservations about Luke’s recent sexual relationships with men as well as women.
There’s a promise that time and trust will demolish that obstacle to their future happiness, until a revelation from Ellen proves a far firmer barrier. Staunchly loyal to family, having nursed another aunt through terminal cancer, Luke cannot countenance continuing a relationship that will cause Ellen pain. Yet, in losing Ruth, he risks losing his mind.
Ellen’s tragedy contains echoes of Mary Costello’s debut, Academy Street, about the Irish exodus to America, but Luke’s preoccupations and identifications are with Stephen Dedalus, Leopold Bloom and their creator, James Joyce. It’s likely my own unfamiliarity with Ulysses will have compromised my enjoyment of the novel, but I did relish the lyrical scene-setting chapters as Luke goes about his humdrum existence, reminiscing and cutting off painting the house.
In the second half, as Luke struggles to accommodate his aunt’s shocking disclosure, I found the style (of question and answer I believe to be borrowed from Joyce) too distancing, although I did appreciate his grandiose ruminations as a form of manic defence. Although he doesn’t descend as far into madness as I expected, his loss of ties to reality (which Freud claims are love and work) makes this credible. Thanks to publishers Canongate for my review copy.
If you’re drawn to stories about men unravelling when a relationship goes sour, you might like my novel, Underneath. Although, be warned, my character is a lot more disturbed and disturbing than Luke!
Ruth Mulvey, a social worker in Dublin of around Luke’s age, has grown up three miles away, although the two have never met until she shows up at his house looking to place a homeless dog. There’s an instant connection and, over the ensuing thirty days, a tentative drawing closer, although Ruth has reservations about Luke’s recent sexual relationships with men as well as women.
There’s a promise that time and trust will demolish that obstacle to their future happiness, until a revelation from Ellen proves a far firmer barrier. Staunchly loyal to family, having nursed another aunt through terminal cancer, Luke cannot countenance continuing a relationship that will cause Ellen pain. Yet, in losing Ruth, he risks losing his mind.
Ellen’s tragedy contains echoes of Mary Costello’s debut, Academy Street, about the Irish exodus to America, but Luke’s preoccupations and identifications are with Stephen Dedalus, Leopold Bloom and their creator, James Joyce. It’s likely my own unfamiliarity with Ulysses will have compromised my enjoyment of the novel, but I did relish the lyrical scene-setting chapters as Luke goes about his humdrum existence, reminiscing and cutting off painting the house.
In the second half, as Luke struggles to accommodate his aunt’s shocking disclosure, I found the style (of question and answer I believe to be borrowed from Joyce) too distancing, although I did appreciate his grandiose ruminations as a form of manic defence. Although he doesn’t descend as far into madness as I expected, his loss of ties to reality (which Freud claims are love and work) makes this credible. Thanks to publishers Canongate for my review copy.
If you’re drawn to stories about men unravelling when a relationship goes sour, you might like my novel, Underneath. Although, be warned, my character is a lot more disturbed and disturbing than Luke!
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