This Aussie native has travelled widely, having lived in Australia, Britain, the U.S., and Canada, and it shows in this very different kind of novel. She also is a graduate of a creative writing school, and that also is obvious from the lyrical, meaningless literary gobbledegook that is scattered throughout this novel.
Most of the story is told in the first person singular by a thirty-something single mother who is also a lawyer and the proprietor of a New Age Sydney cafe. She is singularly introspective and insecure, goes through a series of affairs, and joins a mysterious group who are invited to an island to be taught how to fly, after corresponding with the leader of what seems to resemble a secret cult, over years. The back of the cover of the book is loaded with superlatives in its praise from other authors that I had never heard of.
There is an abundance of very dry humour, deceptions, keen insights, apt metaphors, and some interesting twists here that kept me reading. The correspondence and meetings of the “Flight School” group of gullible misfits who are promised that they can learn to fly keeps the troubled narrator from reading any self-help literature for years, but when she finally turns to these sages to guide her through life, she finds no comfort from them and savages the trite jargon-loaded Dr. Phil psychobabble with biting sarcasm and wit.
A few quotes may clarify what I mean by ‘meaningless literary gobbledegook’. “There was rain falling, music playing quiet.” “The number three bounced around my vision, flashing lights and pixels.” “The absence of knowledge reared from behind me, .. an absence of children loomed ahead of me. The two reached out and tugged at each other.” But there also are some keen observations. “…if women write about love, it is chick lit or, at most domestic drama. Novels about love by men, on the other hand, are just plain novels, or possibly masterpieces.”
I cannot seriously recommend this novel, but I can understand why it will appeal to many readers. I am developing an aversion to books by graduates of Creative Writing courses and schools, but that is just me. And I must become more sceptical of praise written by people I have never heard of, but not to the point of tunnel vision and tunnel choices. Perhaps Moiarty should return to her previous genre of books for children- their imaginary worlds more readily mesh with the real world.
The Passionate Reader 