Read Online Tales from the Tower, Volume 2 by Isobelle Carmody - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Isobelle Carmody
Tags: Young Adult Fiction
Ads: Link
extreme of interpretation was entirely accurate, and that the truth probably lay somewhere in between. One of the poems was good, and it led into a series about his mother and father, which became part of the first collection he published after he moved into the house in Islington. He knows that they are not bad poems, but in retrospect he wishes he had held some of them back for a bit longer and worked on them some more. Or, even better, retired them to the filing cabinet along with the slim folder of family letters.
But his publisher, for the first time ever, had been pressing him for a new book. It was amazing what a bit of publicity could do. He didnât fool himself into believing that he had become a household name or anything like it, but he had entered a new realm where he was known to the people who mattered, and the small population of lost souls who still bought poetry. Turtle Shore had been slated in Australia, where the Aboriginal sequence was condemned as inaccurate and exploitative, but in the rest of the English-speaking world it had been well received. It was reviewed just about everywhere that poetry could be reviewed, and although some of the interpretations made him cringe, almost all of the critics were positive. It was reprinted, then shortlisted for the Whitbread poetry section and reprinted twice more, and although it didnât win the Whitbread it did pick up two other prizes, both of them smaller and less wellknown, but both more prestigious in poetry circles.
He continued to be invited onto discussion panels and arts programs now that his name had risen up those im- portant lists in important hands, and he continued to experience the enormous pleasure of finding that his books were in the shops. And not only Turtle . On the strength of its success his earlier works had all been reissued in new covers that echoed Turtleâs design and thus gave him his own jacket style. Then letters began to arrive via his publisher, asking him to speak at conferences and to visit writersâ groups and schools. She got a designer to set up a website for him, and through that came emails with more offers. He co-tutored a week-long course in Wales on writing poetry, and two weekend ones in Ireland. His publisher sold the US rights to a small press in Boston. He applied for residencies and bursaries as usual. The difference was that now he often got them.
For the first time in his life he was making money. Not serious money, not even a realistic living where Islington was concerned, but he paid his share of the household expenses at least, and it made him feel less like a kept man.
{9}
After she has made the coffee she discovers there is no milk. He hasnât used it since the doctor warned him about his cholesterol levels, and he has forgotten to buy any for her. She finds double cream in the freezer and chisels off a chunk with a carving knife. A large chunk. She puts it in a cup and microwaves it until it bubbles, then she adds coffee to it, and sugar, for comfort. And because of that, of course, guilt interferes with her enjoyment of it.
She considered herself overweight as a teenager and has been obsessed with thinness ever since. At the time she saw herself as massive, with tree-trunk thighs and double chins. But recently, looking through some old photographs, she was surprised to see that the girl in the photos, nearly always trying to evade the camera, was not plump, or even chubby. At worst she might be described as sturdy; perhaps busty. Not fat, though. Nowhere near fat.
And yet the misconception had governed her life; perhaps still does. At college she verged on becoming anorexic. In her first job, as a junior in the publicity department of a large publishing house, she skipped lunches and then sometimes gorged at home, and sometimes vomited afterwards. But when she went freelance she left all that behind her. She was run off her feet, and despite the endless meals and parties she never
But his publisher, for the first time ever, had been pressing him for a new book. It was amazing what a bit of publicity could do. He didnât fool himself into believing that he had become a household name or anything like it, but he had entered a new realm where he was known to the people who mattered, and the small population of lost souls who still bought poetry. Turtle Shore had been slated in Australia, where the Aboriginal sequence was condemned as inaccurate and exploitative, but in the rest of the English-speaking world it had been well received. It was reviewed just about everywhere that poetry could be reviewed, and although some of the interpretations made him cringe, almost all of the critics were positive. It was reprinted, then shortlisted for the Whitbread poetry section and reprinted twice more, and although it didnât win the Whitbread it did pick up two other prizes, both of them smaller and less wellknown, but both more prestigious in poetry circles.
He continued to be invited onto discussion panels and arts programs now that his name had risen up those im- portant lists in important hands, and he continued to experience the enormous pleasure of finding that his books were in the shops. And not only Turtle . On the strength of its success his earlier works had all been reissued in new covers that echoed Turtleâs design and thus gave him his own jacket style. Then letters began to arrive via his publisher, asking him to speak at conferences and to visit writersâ groups and schools. She got a designer to set up a website for him, and through that came emails with more offers. He co-tutored a week-long course in Wales on writing poetry, and two weekend ones in Ireland. His publisher sold the US rights to a small press in Boston. He applied for residencies and bursaries as usual. The difference was that now he often got them.
For the first time in his life he was making money. Not serious money, not even a realistic living where Islington was concerned, but he paid his share of the household expenses at least, and it made him feel less like a kept man.
{9}
After she has made the coffee she discovers there is no milk. He hasnât used it since the doctor warned him about his cholesterol levels, and he has forgotten to buy any for her. She finds double cream in the freezer and chisels off a chunk with a carving knife. A large chunk. She puts it in a cup and microwaves it until it bubbles, then she adds coffee to it, and sugar, for comfort. And because of that, of course, guilt interferes with her enjoyment of it.
She considered herself overweight as a teenager and has been obsessed with thinness ever since. At the time she saw herself as massive, with tree-trunk thighs and double chins. But recently, looking through some old photographs, she was surprised to see that the girl in the photos, nearly always trying to evade the camera, was not plump, or even chubby. At worst she might be described as sturdy; perhaps busty. Not fat, though. Nowhere near fat.
And yet the misconception had governed her life; perhaps still does. At college she verged on becoming anorexic. In her first job, as a junior in the publicity department of a large publishing house, she skipped lunches and then sometimes gorged at home, and sometimes vomited afterwards. But when she went freelance she left all that behind her. She was run off her feet, and despite the endless meals and parties she never
Similar Books
