The Thrifty Fictionista: in Praise of Her Own Kind

Folks, the Thrifty Fictionista is getting a bit uppity and feeling the need to make a return in amongst Blue Jai’s Vignettes…it’s all very well to provide pops of fictional colour, but every now and then I need to use this patch of cyberspace to process the non-fictional STUFF (I believe that’s correct the technical term) swirling around in my head.

The Easter holidays are upon us here in the Antipodes, and for us that means increasingly autumnal days and cooler nights. There is a crispness in the morning air now we have switched back from Daylight Saving Time, and although the temperatures here in Sydneytown are still pushing towards 30 several days this week, night is falling sooner. Deeper. Darker.

And for the Thrifty Fictionista on holidays, that means my Reading Time starts earlier and gets longer. I’m not getting washing off the line at 6:30pm, and chances are I’ve already switched to stewing or baking something for dinner – which basically means I bung something in the oven, prep some greens to steam later, and dive headfirst into the nearest book.

I’ve read a bunch of stuff lately, but one thing has really stood out to me: the high quality of writing by female authors. I realised I have often been quick to praise certain books – especially those by people like Tim Winton and Trent Dalton – as vying for the coveted title (ahem…dreadful pun alert) of my Favourite Book, but that the works I come back to time and again are often by women.

So, I thought it was high time the Thrifty Fictionista put together a list of my Top Five Women Writers for you all to fight over – agree, disagree, comment, don’t comment, whatever. But these, in no particular order, are my picks:

  • CHARMIAN CLIFT

So, I’m guessing my first female writer is someone you may never have heard of, but once you start reading her stuff you may not want to stop. Charmian Clift was an Australian novelist and columnist who died (by her own hand, unfortunately), in July 1969. Her writing draws upon on her life experiences living in Australian and overseas – most notably in Greece and the UK – and what it was like returning to Australia after she moved back to Sydney in 1964 with her husband and children.

Her essays, the best of which have been collected by Nadia Wheatley (also a brilliant Australian woman writer) into two volumes: Sneaky Little Revolutions and The End of the Morning. These are the sort of books I read with a soft 2B pencil in hand, underlining the most magical and lyrical lines of Clift’s prose. She was an incisive observer of life, both interior and exterior, was unafraid to point out the inequalities and vagaries plaguing Australian suburban life before second wave feminism really reached these shores, and she was also very funny.

An example of one of the many lines I highlighted while reading, just to give you a taste?

Memory is as tricky as a flawed window glass that distorts the view beyond according to the way one turns one’s head.

Please, PLEASE read Charmian Clift. She may have left us too soon, but I believe she should never be forgotten. Oh – and if you need anything else to pique your interest, the child she gave up for adoption when she was 19 ended up becoming Suzanne Chick, mother to Gina Chick, who won the first season of Alone: Australia.

How’s that for three generations of incredible women? And yes, they all have books you can read.

  • HELEN GARNER

No list of women writers could be complete without the inimitable Helen Garner. I have just finished reading her book The Season and have been struck – no, humbled – yet again by the high quality of her writing, but the unflinching keenness of her eye, the depth of her emotional awareness and honesty, the precision of her turn of phrase. It doesn’t matter if she’s writing fiction or non-fiction: Helen Garner is, quite genuinely, brilliant.

  • HILARY MANTEL

I felt – quite selfishly – bereft when Hilary Mantel died in 2022. Her passing meant, of course, that I would never again have the pleasure of reading a new novel by her. Or short story, or book review, or dazzlingly insightful essay. Like Helen Garner and Charmian Clift, Mantel did not stick to one form but made any writing she turned to appear effortless. I particularly love her historical fiction (and, as a Thrifty Fictionista can guarantee you get plenty of book for your buck in this department), and hold her Thomas Cromwell trilogy in particularly high esteem. I’m glad she wrote so much, so I have plenty of her work yet to read, but I remain mournful she is gone.

  • MAGGIE O’FARRELL

I’m not band waggoning and including Maggie O’Farrell on this list because of the recent success of the film adaptation of her novel Hamnet at the Oscars. She’s here because ever last thing of hers that I read is excellent and different: not just Hamnet, but The Marriage Portrait and This Must Be The Place and anything else she turns her hand to. I love the way O’Farrell tells stories, especially in her historical fiction, from perspectives that have often been ignored. Women’s perspectives, most obviously and particularly.

  • CURTIS SITTENFELD

I was delighted to pick up Curtis Sittenfeld’s short story collection Show, Don’t Tell at a second hand book sale recently and finally read it the other week. What a masterclass! And what a joy to return at the end of that work to a story about Lee Fiora, from her first novel, Prep. Sittenfeld’s worlds are instantly accessible and fully realised, whether they be contained in the sparse pages of a short story or the sprawl of a novel. She can take a single idea (eg. what if Hilary didn’t marry Bill? in Rodham) and imagine the unfurling of that notion so fully and deftly and with such complexity that her alternate reality seems like…reality.

Anyhoo, that’s it from the Thrifty Fictionista for now. I’m off to read and write some more…

The Thrifty Fictionista in Lockdown (again)

How I imagine I look…

Lockdown Day 1, and the Thrifty Fictionista has once again taken to her bed.

Not because I’m sick, not because I’m occasionally inclined towards melodrama, but because it’s vaguely cold out — meaning it’s fine and sunny and not the slightest bit windy, but the temperature has dipped below 20 degrees Celcius, which is regarded quite decidedly as ugg boot weather in my part of the Antipodes. We’re not wimps, really we’re not…

Besides, now that Greater Sydney has been placed into Lockdown (again) there is literally no chance anyone is going to come knocking on our door, so there’s nothing to stop me from typing away on my trusty laptop under the cover of my delightfully warm doona. The Bloke and the kids are down the other end of the house, and given we are going to be trapped together for the next thirteen days none of them is feeling the need to interrupt me (yet). I even have a hot cup of peppermint tea on my bedside table, though that did require me to give one of my two TBR piles a bit of a shove so it would fit. TBR, for the uninitiated, stands for “To Be Read”, which is both a sacred and dreadful practice of stacking large quantities of books you plan to read on your bedside table, the precipitous nature of which may or may not impede your spouse’s ability to successfully procure clothing from their side of the wardrobe.

Lockdown level annoyed…

At the top of the nearer TBR pile is a biography of Rudolf Nureyev I dived into after writing my last post, the reading of which I have been interspersing with bellyflops into romance novels of dubious quality (not usually a genre I pay the slightest bit of attention to, but every now and then my brain craves a book that is the mental equivalent of chewing gum).

In my defence, my brain probably does deserve a bit of a break. A large chunk of my morning (in between moaning about being in Lockdown again) was spent rescheduling the holiday we had planned to take next week, cancelling the cat sitter, and working out how to make my elder daughter’s 13th birthday next week feel less like she’s spending in Long Bay Jail?

I only meant to read one…

Apologies — am just back from a spot of online shopping; I had to throw out my favourite pair of blue jeans the other day due to the development of a hole in an unmentionable place, and since I can’t go to the Mall or anywhere else for the next two weeks, needs must. I suspect this digression may also enlighten you, dear reader, to the state of my mind at the moment and why I am resorting to reading trashy romances. It’s like a tin of worms in there, folks. Or maybe a bag of fleas?

Anyhooooo….the Thrifty Fictionista, currently warm and toasty but evidently sporting the attention span of a gnat, has now finally recalled the real reason she began tapping away at her keyboard on this fine, sunny, slightly cold but doona-covered afternoon: if you’re boxed in, the best solution is a box set.

YASS QUEEN! It worked for me last time we were in Lockdown (or was it the time before that?), when I cracked through an enormous box set of Sarah J Maas fantasy novels, tomes weighty enough to anchor the QE2 in Sydney Harbour…were it not for the fact that we have closed our international borders indefinitely and the mere sighting of a cruise ship off the coast is likely to send most Sydneysiders into a panic faster than you can say “Ruby Princess”…

Quality lockdown reading…

This time the box set I have chosen is Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall trilogy. I suspect I’ve already read the first two (the ones that both won the Booker Prize) a long time ago, and the third one — well, it’s as gigantic as the others, and I am looking forward to reading all three. At its best, historical fiction is immersive, and what better time than Lockdown to lose yourself in another time and (hopefully not plague-ridden) place?

And we’re not really all expected to clean our houses from top to bottom all over again are we?

No, seriously — are we?