I’ve Seen Things You People Wouldn’t Believe

I am of the generation who saw the original Blade Runner film at the cinema. I went with my brother, and we were both a little obsessed with the world and the characters. To this day, we still quote to each other Roy’s (Rutger Hauer) “Tears in the Rain” speech. Sequels can suck. Like really, really suck (except for Terminator 2, amirite?). This sequel doesn’t suck. It’s an homage, glacially slow, iterative, leaving so much unsaid, but immersing the viewer, just as the first movie did, in strange, epic, cruelly beautiful settings that are compelling because they are just familiar enough to remind us of the here and now.

blade-runner-2049

I am nowhere near a Ryan Gosling fan (he’s such a green banana), but he was perfect in this; and Robin Wright is incredible in everything she does. Few female actresses have her mixture of gravitas and humility on screen (and also, Antiope 4 eva!!!!). Return of Deckard was not the cringe I thought it would be: quite the opposite. This might be the role I’ve liked Hfo the most in. Instant classic.

Changing Nail Colour! My Life Was Not Complete!

Well I did say I’d review everything. I am an inveterate nail-biter; have been since the age of 5 when I stopped sucking my thumb. While I was once mortified to learn that only a tiny 10% of nail-biters continue into adulthood, I have now decided that as far as bad habits go, it’s a fairly mild one. I don’t smoke, take drugs, or drink much, after all (the last one depends on Kate Forsyth, whose presence is inevitably accompanied by Very Good Champagne).

So I visit a nail salon every three weeks for SNS nails (much better for you than acrylic) and I have discovered the joy of colour-changing nail polish. I mean, look at the pics! Dark purple when it’s cold, crimson when it’s warm. I’m so delighted by it that I’m always sticking my fingers into cold or warm places (minds out of the gutter please) to make it change.

And from the ridiculous to the sublime: next review will be Bladerunner 2049.

 

‘murican gods: genuine grown-up fantasy

Oh hell! Just finished watching this on Apple TV. If you loved the book, you’ll love the series. If you’ve never read the book, but you like the idea of genuinely adult (like R-rated, loads of bloody violence, and more than one ACTUAL PEEN) fantasy, then you also will love this. Ian McShane is immensely watchable as rumpled, scheming Mr Wednesday, and Pablo Schreiber is suitably pugilistic and sweary as Mad Sweeney the leprechaun. The pace is quiiiiite sloooooow, but it gives you time to enjoy the beautiful cinematography. It’s a headfuck, trippy af, beautiful, terrible, outlandish, over-the-top, funny, horrible, weird, and most of all UTTERLY FANTASTIC. Do watch.

odin

The Break

The Break
Marianne Keyes

It’s no secret I’m a huge fan of Keyes. Her books have so much warmth and humour, and I’ve never been disappointed by one. But a few have stood out as clear favourites, and The Break is one of them (fyi, my other favourite is Is Anybody Out There?). I’d go so far as to say it’s required reading for any woman in her forties who is starting to feel the creeping dissatisfactions of middle age. It’s a hugely generous book, with lots of heart. While there isn’t quite as much humour as the Walsh sisters books, there were still a few moments where I laughed out loud on the plane (I’m always on a plane these days; don’t ask) and startled the person sitting next to me.

I know that critics like to dismiss Keyes as “chick lit”, suggesting there’s something trivial and fluffy about her writing (or about that whole genre really). But this book deals with deep themes about what happens to love over time, who’s responsible for children as they grow more independent, and how desire can warp judgement. And it’s a total page-turner, like all Keyes’s books. I inhaled it in three or four sittings. I don’t know how she does it, but I’m glad she keeps doing it. Five stars.

Guardians of the Galaxy II

I am a hopeless Marvel fangirl but even I didn’t think Guardians of the Galaxy was going to make a good movie. Surprise! It did. Sooo good in fact that they made a sequel. This is one of those occasions where the sequel is better than the original. Gone is the whiff of uncertainty, even apology, that the first movie had. GotGII wears its silliness proudly and provides many huge laughs (I swear, Drax’s line about the size of his turds had my daughter crying into her ice-cream with laughter for a full ten minutes). It passes the Bechdel test with a great subplot about sisters, and both Gamora and Nebula are fabulously complex characters with compelling backstories. Kurt Russell is a treat as Ego, and the final half hour had me on the edge of my (plane) seat. But Baby Groot stole the show. I thought I was going to be embarrassed by the obvious ca-yoots, but I loved him and everything about him: especially his dislike of hats. I get it, Baby Groot. I GET IT.

 

Where am I?

Hello, world. I do find it difficult to write my books, hold down my job, parent my children, and blog, so today I’m just going to let you know that I have a new book out and where you can get it, and give you this link to my Facebook page where you’ll have an easier time getting news and info out of me.

New book: Sisters of the Fire. You can purchase it herexsisters-of-the-fire-pagespeed-ic-pkqw12qzen.

An action-packed, compelling historical fantasy, from the pen of an award-winning author

‘…superb world building… intriguing, genuine, rich.’ – Kirkus Review

The battle-scarred warrior princess Bluebell, heir to her father’s throne, is rumoured to be unkillable. So when she learns of a sword wrought specifically to slay her by the fearsome raven king, Hakon, she sets out on a journey to find it before it finds her. The sword is rumoured to be in the possession of one of her four younger sisters. But which one? Scattered as they are across the kingdoms, she sets out on a journey to find them.

Her four sisters all have their own paths to tread, the gifted magician Ash is on a journey to find a dragon that could determine her destiny. The beautiful, unhappy Rose has left her undermagician Aunt and is speeding to the aid of her daughter, Rowan, who has been lost to her. Ivy, sold into marriage for the sake of an alliance, is now set to become the ruling Duchess of Seacaster with the imminent death of her much older and sick husband, and the power-hungry Willow is raising her infant child as a potential trimartyr king and training to be a warrior for the fanatical religious order Maava.

From wild rocky coastline to granite-topped tors, from bustling harbours to echoing ghost towns, from halls of kings to ancient primal woodlands, this story follows five sisters upon whose actions kingdoms will rise and fall.

Adventures in hypothyroidism

Not that explanations are necessary but…

I have been quiet before, but this time my inability to post was a result of me really actually truly being incapable.

As many of you may know, I am usually quite fit and active (cycling, boxing, lifting weights, pilates) but I was increasingly finding it hard to recover after workouts and some days even hard to get out of bed or wash my hair… you know, the stuff that makes one socially acceptable. My doctor sent me for blood tests and discovered I had Hashimoto’s thyroiditis, an autoimmune disorder that results in extreme fatigue. She told me to wait six weeks and test again, and in that six weeks I crashed. Badly.

It has been a very busy year. I travelled and wrote and did all the things I usually do, but in the last six weeks I have been incapable of almost everything I usually do. I’ve been on my bike maybe once. I stopped going to gym. I had heavy brain fog so have been unable to read or think or write. The only thing I’ve been good at is sleeping. I could sleep for Australia (except on those nights where my thyroid would surge hellishly back to life and leave me with palpitations and constricted lungs and so wired my brain wouldn’t shut down).

doremouse_1577465i

Accurate representation of me

My doctor tells me it’s just bad luck, but there are other who think such auto-immune disorders bear a relationship to overwork and adrenal fatigue. Indeed, I don’t seem to know how to stop working but as workaholism is fairly socially acceptable nobody has cautioned me very harshly. I feel my exhaustion now, all the way to my marrow.

But the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t always the front of an oncoming train. My second blood test showed, predictably, that my condition had worsened and now I am taking medication. I was told that it might take up to a month to work, but after a week the fog has lifted and I don’t feel so flat. I’ve still got a long way to go to regain my pre-Hashimoto’s self, but with a little bit of self-care and kindness, I should have a terrific 2016. You’ll have to expect less of me, as I expect less of myself.

I wish you all happiness and joy for the new year. Take care of yourselves.

Kim xx

Here’s to Women with Bad Reputations

In 1982, December the 18th to be precise, I went to my first ever rock concert: Joan Jett and the Blackhearts at Festival Hall in Brisbane. I worshipped Joan Jett; she was unconventional and tough and impossibly cool. Joan Jett made my teen years bearable, when my lack of conformity constantly drew out the worst in people. Like Joan, I didn’t give a damn about my bad reputation, and had the middle finger up to the world.

Yesterday, the 15th November to be precise, or almost 33 years later, I heard that song blasted in a huge arena for the second time. This time, though, it was to accompany Ronda Rousey’s walk to the Octagon where she was due to fight Holly Holm in the UFC bantamweight championship. If you’ve had your head under a rock, Rousey is a marvel. An astonishing athlete who’s also articulate, likeable (or hateable if you’re that way inclined), and an outspoken feminist. She is, like Jett, unconventional and tough and impossibly cool. While I wouldn’t say I worship her (I’m a little old for that), I took an avid interest in her; avid enough to book a trip to Melbourne and drop a ton of dosh on great seats to see her fight.

Photo: Jayne Kamin-Oncea

Photo: Jayne Kamin-Oncea

It’s a matter of record now that Rousey lost the fight. Her opponent, sure-footed and precise world boxing and world kick-boxing champion Holly Holm dominated her from the outset. I quite like Holm (in fact, if you read my books, she’s the spitting image of Bluebell). But to say that Rousey has been knocked off her perch is to misread the situation. Rousey isn’t famous simply because she rose to the top very quickly, looking invincible, in a sport that is so brutal and bloody that I covered my eyes a lot of the time. Her perch is bigger than the UFC. She is at the top of the world as a woman who gives us a new narrative, just as Joan Jett did in the 1980s. I feel so incredibly lucky to have seen both these stars when they were shining their brightest.

Today, give the middle finger to the world in their honour.

Advice for my children: don’t believe them

My kids are still a long way off HSC, but the pressure about “good grades” now pervades every level of school, and prompted me to write this letter to my kids about what life might look like if they don’t believe what the system tells them to believe.

Dear child of mine,

Don’t listen when the school system tells you that you have to get good grades.

Good grades say nothing about you, about your value, about your trajectory. They will have you believe that you need to study hard so you don’t get left behind, so you can get into a good course at uni, then get a good job when you leave uni and, presumably, do that job until you retire or become dead inside, whichever comes first (probably the latter).flatline

That is not a life.

I don’t want you to get straight A’s and study medicine.

I want you to leave school and maybe get a job at K-mart, save enough money for a plane fare for Europe. Maybe you’ll travel around working in bars and fall in love over there and settle in London for a few years and work in a bookshop where the heating’s dodgy and your Australian fingers always freeze. Then maybe you’ll have your heart spectacularly broken and come home to lie on my couch and cry for a few months. Maybe you’ll pick yourself up and teach guitar lessons for a while until you find a job you can do and move out again. Maybe you’ll have a great flatmate who makes you laugh so hard that you snort coffee out your nose. Maybe you’ll drink too much some nights and listen to Led Zeppelin so loud the neighbours complain. Then maybe you’ll take a posy of wildflowers to the neighbour and say sorry and they’ll invite you in for tea and tell you about when they were in the army or when they nursed dying people or played in the symphony.

Maybe you’ll decide you definitely don’t want to be a soldier or a nurse or a violinist and you should do a TAFE course to top up your school grades. Maybe you’ll apply to study economics in Melbourne but get there and decide you’ll do arts in Adelaide instead. Maybe you’ll read so much Shakespeare that you start to think in iambic pentameter. Maybe you’ll become obsessed with the Spartans. Maybe you’ll take agin the existentialists. Maybe you’ll jump to science and find music in the elements. Maybe you’ll learn that the greatest gift of education is not a job, but a spirit of curiosity.

Maybe you’ll work in your part-time job too many hours to get great grades but you’ll pull through and take an internship somewhere interesting that leads you to a solid job you can work your way up in, with great people you like and one guy who pisses you off all the time. Maybe you’ll cautiously fall in love again (not with that one guy). Maybe you’ll have an unplanned baby on the way. Maybe you’ll get married in a hurry.fireworks

Maybe you’ll spend New Years Eves looking at a dozen different vistas: rivers, valleys, the ocean, the city, your lover’s eyes. Maybe you won’t always get home for Christmas. Maybe you’ll love too hard and not always people: songs, dogs, books, sports teams, ideas, smells in springtime.

Maybe you’ll have an adventure. Maybe you’ll sometimes find it hard to make ends meet. Maybe that’s okay. Over time, it will work out. It will all work out. Just live.

Your loving mother.