I have a soft spot for Australian author Liane Moriarty, because I ‘discovered’ her as a reader. Which is to say, I picked up her debut novel, Three Wishes (2003), while browsing a bookshop, read the first couple of paragraphs, and decided to buy it on the spot. No ads, no reviews, just an instant connection between writer and reader.
Three Wishes didn’t disappoint. It’s an entertaining and well-crafted piece of ‘chick-lit’ (a diminutive, albeit fairly accurate, term) and I think it really resonated with me at the time because I had spent a number of years working in North Sydney and its surrounding suburbs – the area Moriarty knows best.
I kept an eye out for her follow-up novels, and greatly enjoyed The Last Anniversary (2005), which takes Moriarty’s penchant for mystery and suspense transplants it into a cosy island setting. Next up came What Alice Forgot (2009), my review of which you will find here. In short, I liked it on the whole but was dismayed to see Moriarty plot herself into a corner (resulting in an ending that didn’t ring true), thought her prose a little inelegant, and was underwhelmed with the central premise, which was a cliché – especially to a seasoned SF reader/writer.
It astonishes me to discover as I write this that I didn’t pick up another of her books for nearly nine years. About a month ago, I was at the airport waiting to board a flight – and for me it is impossible to be in that situation and not buy a book. I had in mind something easily digestible, like a collection of Jeremy Clarkson’s columns, but the convenience-store-cum-bookshop did not stock any of his titles and I was running out of time. I ended up at the bestseller shelves, which I usually avoid at all costs, and spotted Truly Madly Guilty (2016) by Liane Moriarty. I cast a quick eye over the blurb, then hastened to the counter and parted with my hard-earned.
It proved to be $17 well spent.
Truly Madly Guilty has everything that first charmed me in Three Wishes: recognisable Sydney setting, detailed and relatable characters, a compelling central premise, a shifting-perspective narrative that allows the author to build suspense, and a seriously wicked twist that wrong-foots the reader and leaves him utterly flabbergasted.
But what Truly Madly Guilty has that Moriarty’s early novels did not is genuine literary merit. It retains its chick-lit trappings and conventions, but transcends them to become a contemporary Australian classic.
It’s hard to believe this is the same author who wrote the occasionally clumsy prose in What Alice Forgot. TMG feels effortless and, when Moriarty really stretches herself, the unique turns of phrase and figurative language are dazzling. The novel’s structure is masterful, tempting the voyeuristic reader to consume page after page until it drops its bombshell, which completely changes the narrative’s outlook. The characters change right along with it and, even though subsequent surprises are few and nowhere near as potent, it doesn’t matter, because the reader is totally invested in every character and takes great pleasure in learning how one simple but earth-shattering event will affect their lives.
Because she is not a pretentious writer like Tim Winton or Chris Tsiolkas, it is unlikely Moriarty will ever win broad critical acclaim. “Moriarty is brilliant at her craft,” says a pull quote from a review in The Age, “all the time cranking up the suspense.” It’s a backhanded compliment, because while TMG is suspenseful, that’s probably its least notable accomplishment. The storyline is complex and intricate but not bamboozling, and there is an awful lot going on below the text. Quality Australian literature has always entertained while delivering its themes – and that’s exactly what TMG does.
Historically, the majority of my favourite Aussie authors have been men – Henry Lawson, John O’Grady, D’Arcy Niland, even Winton when he’s in form – but the best local fiction I’ve read in recent years has been from female writers. I would put The Light Between Oceans (2014) by M L Stedman in the top 10 best books I have ever read, better even than Truly Madly Guilty. (She has published nothing since – I hope she doesn’t turn out to be an Antipodean J D Salinger!)
It feels to me as if Australian fiction has been going through a quiet renaissance – and women have been leading the charge.